


Moonlight Children

by Khalee



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Violence, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-05 02:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 44,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5357990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khalee/pseuds/Khalee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthias travels the country as part of a troupe of wandering actors. Berwald has just received his commission as the Commander of the Watch in an unfamiliar town. When they witness a witch hunt, they decide to rescue the alleged witch without realizing they might have stumbled upon something stranger than anything either of them could have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crossroads

It was the time of the day the violet-eyed boy loved most, the hour when the afternoon begins to melt into evening, when shadows lengthen and the sun drops low behind the trees, leaving a trail of fiery clouds in its wake. Free from the dullness of his chores and with the hour of apprenticeship in the healer's musty cottage already gone and forgotten, the boy slipped quietly up the stairs and opened the attic window, to climb out along the slippery planks and settle in a hazardous perch atop the slanted roof. His father's inn stood high amongst its less stalwart companions, with three stories put sturdily together out of wood and stone and a tall, whitewashed attic where mattresses lined up, waiting for travelers in need of a shelter for the night but not enough coin to their names. It was not often that the boy could relish a quiet hour on the top of the world, with nothing but the sky and the birds for company, while underneath him life would carry on as the townsfolk hurried along the same trodden lines in their eagerness to complete the day's work and retire to their homes or to the inn's cozy common room, where a fire burned brightly in the hearth and the wench handed out steaming mugs of mulled drinks.

The town lay small and cramped in the valley between rather steep hillsides, yet handily placed at the crossroads where a carriage road tied the harbor to the capital from west to east and met two other trails heading further inland. Even though they meandered painstakingly amongst clusters of rocks and trees, they still carried a steady flow of guests that only dwindled throughout the harsh winter months, when snow would bury the passes and few men would venture the journey in sleighs pulled by sturdy, long-haired ponies. Thus the town prospered, be it from trade or lodgings, and high walls had been built around it to keep both outlaws and beasts at bay while guards patrolled the streets and kept the gates safe.

In that particular afternoon at the end of October, a biting wind had begun to blow, whipping the boy mercilessly in his unsheltered spot. And yet he could not bring himself to go back, for not many days were left until the first snow would fall and confine him to the ground until the following spring. He pulled his hood up, grasped his coat closer to his body, and waited for the slow stream of townspeople to make their way to the inn, his signal to climb down and help his father handle that evening's customers. The hour was growing late and the shops had locked away their merchandise, but no tell-tale chime was coming from the bell hanging above the door. The boy frowned, squinting in the near-dusk. Too many men and women were lingering outdoors, defying the cold and the growing darkness, congregating in large, chattering groups, and their voices reached the boy in a rising murmur, words blurred together as threateningly as the rumbling tide.

The boy swallowed uneasily and crawled closer to the edge, sweeping his gaze over the crowds. From his high vantage point, the town was a maze of narrow streets, winding like the threads in a spider's web from the central square, an empty stretch of ground covered in battered cobblestones and home to many a fair and celebration, to the four gates breaching the town walls at the four cardinal points. A large wagon was rolling through the western gate in a swarm of urchins and dogs, its brightly colored bulk swaying dangerously on the uneven road, but the boy spared it no more than a passing glance. The southern path was empty as far as his eyes could reach and nothing but shadows covered the road to the east, wide and well-kept but bordered by tall, thick trees that hid it from sight after the first bend.

The northernmost gate stood closest, yet something akin to a dull fear kept the boy's gaze averted even when nothing more was left to search. The land that lay to the north was the poorest, a collection of sad patches of dirt that battled boulders and ancient, deep-rooted trees for dominion and served as nothing but shelter for several derelict huts claimed only by the strangers and the dispossessed. It was a dreary place indeed, where men and women with grim faces came and went away with the passing of seasons, and where they were suffered to live only for the hard labor they took on in exchange for little more than a pittance. The boy turned his eyes to the north at last, only to discern the tell-tale glint of weapons as the gates were pushed open to allow a small group of guards to pass through. He fisted his hand against his chest to calm his rushing breath. There were so many reasons that could call the Watch in that place of frays and squalor, he told himself again and again, even as two monks clad in black, hooded robes emerged from beneath the shadows of the gate.

One monk was walking boldly ahead, his robes a dark stain amongst the bright blue uniforms of the Watch, while the other stepped slowly and carefully but never far behind, clutching the reins of a skittish mule harnessed to a two-wheeled, wooden cart. And, even as he fought to subdue the unruly animal, the monk's eyes never left the charges his cart carried, two battered figures huddled closely together against the narrow planks.

The unusual procession was making its way along the streets, and the crowds scattered to the sides to allow it to pass but, as it progressed to the heart of the town, the men and women fell into step behind it in a silent cortege. Up in his high shelter, the boy drew closer to the slippery edge until nothing was left between him and the fall but a sole row of shingles, and he hooked his fingers inside the shallow space between two tiles. His eyes prickled and filled with tears as they strained to recognize faces still obscured by distance and dusk, and the boy wiped at them furiously with his sleeve, craning his neck even further until everything was hidden by the twists in the road.

It was the silence that reached him first, as the townspeople fell quiet one by one, and within it the clatter of hooves grew, drawing more and more near with excruciating slowness, until the procession came into view from around a corner, so close that the boy had to bite back a gasp. He could see all of it now, the man bound to the cart so warily, the ropes coiled tightly around his limbs and the child cowering against his chest. As a stray ray from the setting sun came down to play on their pale hair and set it alight with glacial fire, the cart rolled closer and the man lifted his head, his gaze fastened on the small silhouette at the edge of the roof.

The boy scrambled back as if burned, his feet struggling against the slippery tiles, until he felt the window frame dig into the small of his back. Beneath him the crowd pressed on but the boy sat still, biting mercilessly into his fisted hand as if to choke back pain and guilt alike.

For, hard as he tried, he could not bear to look down into the empty eyes of his friend.

 

* * *

 

The guards manning the western gate were facing what was maybe the most peculiar moment of their lives, that had insofar veered safely between sleep, meals and the drunken brawls from which everyone emerged with several bruises to brag about but no lasting grudges.

And, by the looks of it, they were dismally unprepared.

A tall, large wagon put sturdily together out of wide wooden planks, embossed on all sides with outlandish patterns and painted in clashing hues of purples, greens and blues had paused in front of them in all its garish wonder. An equally flamboyant young man had just jumped down from the driver's box and was stomping the ground to bring life back into his numb legs while measuring the three guards with a look that made them feel as if they should be offended, though somehow they could not pinpoint the why. Maybe the challenge lay in his grin, teasing but carefully kept below the point that warranted retribution, or in his blond locks sticking up at impossible angles in a hairdo that sadly no one had had the clairvoyance to outlaw, or in his shirt dyed a vivid shade of red that somehow seemed to complement his fiery disposition.

Hell, even the two hardy, brown horses that had taken advantage of the moment of respite to graze on the sparse grass at the edge of the road were idly chewing their meal with a disparaging glint in their sly eyes.

The eldest guard threw a withering look at his faltering companions and advanced on the newcomers with the right hand on the hilt of his sword. "State your names and the reason why you seek entrance," he barked.

The young man lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Be at peace, my good sir, for we're a humble troupe of travelling actors who ask nothing but the privilege to perform our awesome plays in front of the good men and women of.. of... what’s this god-forsaken place called again?" The last question was directed in a loud whisper at his travel companions, who had meanwhile gathered in a neat row behind him. A choir of groans encompassing various pitches and levels of exasperation was his sole answer.

A shorter man flaunting a headful of shaggy blonde hair and a piercing green gaze underneath unthinkably thick eyebrows sighed wretchedly and took a step forward. "Gentlemen, I am Arthur Kirkland, playwright. If word of my name or of my work has yet to reach your ears, do not despair, for we have traveled the roads for many weeks now with the very purpose of bringing the unrivalled delights of theatre to those wretched souls blind to the benefits of culture. Now, if you upstanding gentlemen could generously allow us through and point the way to the nearest inn, we would certainly waste no more of your valuable time."

The guards blinked dazedly in unison. "Do you carry any weapons with you?" one of them ventured, scratching his head sheepishly.

"No weapon whatsoever but the blunt contraptions that the plots masterfully devised by myself might constrain us to wield during our engaging performances." The man kept carefully his face straight but his green eyes were dancing with barely concealed mirth.

"Fine, then move along," the other guard waved them through, eager to be rid of the strange lot. "Follow the street along the monastery walls until you reach the market place, then head left. The inn is a tall building with green window panes, you can hardly miss it."

"And this is how it's done," Arthur hissed pointedly in the direction of his taller companion as the latter resumed his seat on the driver's perch. The young man scowled without much resentment but made sure to stick out his tongue for good measure.

With a strike of reins the wheels groaned under the weight and began to roll forward. As the wagon passed through the open gate, a swarm of children assaulted the newcomers with screams of joy. The startled horses snuffled and danced nervously in place, and Arthur pierced the offending urchins with a vengeful glare.

"Begone, you vermin, before I bring the whip to your backs," he yelled, and the children shied away, eyeing cautiously his bushy eyebrows that had come together in an almighty frown.

The tall man winked down from his perch, driving onwards while the children dashed out of the way and reassembled in a subdued herd. The sparkle of eagerness sprang back to life into their eyes as a patter of running feet drew closer and closer and a disheveled boy stumbled in from a side path.

“They’ve caught the witches!” he announced proudly, nearly out of breath. “They’re bringing them here…”

A murmur of delight filled the air as the urchins surrounded their herald and fled the way he had come, while the companions watched them go and then stared at one another anxiously.

"Witches? Here? I thought witch hunts had died down long ago in this part of the country..." Arthur muttered, reaching out to catch by the scruff of the neck an unruly child who was running circles around him while waving a wooden stick. "Peter, get inside the wagon and don't come out until I say so."

"No, I won't! You're not my father to tell me what to do!" Peter squealed and threw his stick at Arthur, who caught it easily and then glared at the sight of the boy's defying eyes, shadowed by eyebrows as thick as his own.

"I am your older brother and you will obey me!" he bellowed, and carried the struggling child to the wagon. Unconcerned with flailing limbs and shrieks, he threw the boy inside, slammed the door shut and slid the bolt into place, while the noise of heavy objects colliding against walls followed suit.

The remaining travelers did not bat an eyelid at the all too familiar scene. A tall, slender woman and a man hidden underneath a hooded cape kept walking unperturbed by the side of the road.

"You'd better go in and fetch your wig before it gets torn to shreds, Gil," the woman said, pushing her chestnut hair out of her eyes and chuckling quietly, "or so help me, if we have to flee one more town in disgrace because you tricked some God-fearing folk into believing you're the devil made flesh, I'm delivering you to the first church myself and I'm taking over your roles."

Gilbert offered her a mischievous smirk, his eyes flashing red from under the shadow of his cowl. "And get unawesomely bruised right before my big performance? No way. And besides," he added with a wink as he tucked inconspicuously away a few stray strands of white hair, "the only one willing to claim _your_ roles would be Feliks, and I’d wager ten mugs of beer that Matthias won't feel as inclined as before to rescue _him_ from your evil clutches."

"Damn right I won't!" the tall blonde shouted down from his perch, earning himself an indignant "Hey!" from the long-haired man sitting next to him.

Arthur fell back into pace with them, his eyebrows still knitted in annoyance. "If you bloody twits are done plotting how to ruin my plays, you'd better start figuring out how to get past that," he said, pointing at the dense group of townspeople blocking the road to the left, just as Matthias cursed and pulled on the reins sharply.

"The goddamn crowd grows even thicker further on," he yelled down as he surveyed the street from his height, “and the road's not wide enough to push through. You could either wait here or move on until you find another opening, there must be more than one way to reach the inn."

"What do you mean, 'you'?" Arthur asked morosely. "What are you planning to do?"

Matthias put away the reins and slid to the ground. "I want to take a look at the witch before she disappears into a puff of smoke. Feliks, take the reins, will you?"

The smaller blonde pretended to be very busy studying his fingernails. "I don't want to, driving totally gives me blisters."

"Come on Feel," Matthias whined, "are you mad at me? It was a joke, a joke!"

"I'll drive," the woman offered, and Matthias nodded towards her gratefully.

"Thanks, Liz, don't order dinner without me!" he managed to shout over his shoulder before getting swept into the advancing crowd.

Arthur stepped closer and threw her a hard look. "A witch hunt is no laughing matter, Eliza, you know you should not encourage him."

"He needs to witness one so he can understand, doesn’t he?" she sighed.

 

* * *

 

It had been a punishment of sorts that the boy had forced himself to endure, to hear every thump of wheels against cobblestones, every harsh word and laughter, until distance melded all into an indistinguishable murmur. And even then he lingered, clawing at the tiles until his fingers turned red, torn between numbing fear and smothering guilt.

Curse the cowardice that had kept his eyes away from his friends’ torment, denying them the sole consolation he could offer.

Even when a door burst brutally open and the ground crunched under the weight of heavy steps, the boy held his breath and clung even tighter to his precarious perch.

"Tino Väinämöinen, I know you’re up there," his father’s voice reached up and the muffled sounds, muted by distance and the receding clamor, held something so akin to compassion that the boy let himself slide down, low enough to peek inquisitively off the edge of the roof. His father stood in the middle of the street, his arms crossed against his chest in a gesture that looked more resigned than forbidding. “You should come down now,” he added, and the weariness in his stance and voice shattered the last wall of the boy’s resolve. He clambered up and pushed the window open, slipping his legs through the narrow opening and dropping back in with practiced ease.

And, during his hasty retreat, his gaze did not turn even once to watch the eastern gate open wide and allow through a tall, intimidating rider, wearing a blue coat covered in the thick dust of the harbor road.

When Tino reached the first floor, the metallic sound of the bolt sliding back into place echoed throughout the quiet house and he slowed his pace, treading carefully on each step of the creaking staircase. The front door was never locked at such an early hour, not as long as there was still a chance for a stray patron to wander inside, and the boy swallowed a gasp at the sight of the common room, empty and cold as the fire died down, licking at the last remnants of charred wood. His father was leaning against the back of a chair, staring into the dwindling flames, and Tino moved closer and tugged at his sleeve until the older man turned his eyes on him.

"What’s going on, Father?" he asked, and the innkeeper sighed heavily, pulling his sleeve out of his son's grasp.

“You will forget you’ve ever known those foreign lads you've been sneaking out to see during the past years – don’t even bother to deny it, son - and pray that nobody else remembers. They stand accused of witchcraft and will be put on trial by orders of Abbot Olav."

Tino blinked once, twice, his mind struggling to yield to the confirmation of the fears that had already blossomed within, then swallowed hard and clenched his fists at his side. “For how long have you known about this, Father? You and all the other cowards in this goddamn town?” His voice rose accusingly, the shyness he felt around the older man all but forgotten. "You could have warned them! You could have saved them, but the thought never crossed your mind, has it? One single word from Abbot Olav and everyone dances for him like puppets on strings..."

His father’s muscles flexed menacingly and, before Tino could move back to safety, the heavy hand cuffed him against the side of his head, filling his sight with tiny whirlpools of darkness.

"You are still young, boy," the innkeeper hissed in a cold voice, studying with disbelief his son’s flushed cheeks and fierce eyes that, in all his seventeen years of life, had never before flashed with so much wrath, "and you have yet to learn how the power of fear wielded by the church can sway even the strongest of hearts and bring any man to cower under its bidding. For your own good you'd better start learning fast."

Tino held back the urge to touch his aching skin, and took a step back, then another, his eyes never leaving his father’s face. “No, Father,” he murmured. “This is one lesson I will not learn.”

And, before the older man could retaliate, he turned on his heel and ran to the back of the room where the door to the stables still stood ajar. His father’s sharp voice followed him but he did not pause to listen. The courtyard lay empty before him and as he rushed outside and further away into the street, stubborn tears that had nothing to do with his bruising cheekbone began to sting the corners of his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The nameless faces in the crowd held a sickly fascination for Matthias as he weaved his way through, the last traces of smile lost from his lips. Around him men chatted pleasantly, their voices rising and falling no more menacingly than the echo of a summer breeze, and the women leaned into each other to whisper and laugh, some holding their children's hands or carrying them into their arms. Yet soon they would witness the pain and humiliation of some helpless creature, giving it no more thought than to any other welcome distraction from the day's toils, and then return to their homes and jest about it over that evening's supper. Matthias gritted his teeth as he watched them pass by. Like so many times before, he could already see the lust for violence creeping behind their otherwise good-natured faces, the sight equally enticing and repulsive, like the slithering coils of a snake preparing to strike. And like so many times before, he would watch them from afar, unable to tear his eyes away, hating them and hating himself for not lifting a finger to rescue those so unfairly punished for being feeble or different or simply alone. Matthias was no coward, far from it, yet life had taught him early on that the world was no longer a place for heroes but could be so much more forgiving towards a seemingly loud-mouthed fool.

Bodies pressed against him as he walked on through the narrow street and Matthias used his sharp elbows obliviously to keep the onslaught at bay, until a weight crushed against his side, pushing him into a pack of men wearing the garb of field workers. Rough arms caught his fall and even rougher curses graced his ears as his hand reached out to catch the perpetrator, yet nothing but air slid between his fingers when the boy who had stumbled into him so ungracefully rushed into the throng, shooting back a single glance that revealed a pair of lavender, purposeful eyes. Matthias offered an apologetic smile to the grumbling men and then moved on, feeling for his money pouch as an afterthought. Its reassuring bulk still filled his pocket and he shrugged, banishing all thoughts of the strange boy when the road ended abruptly in a large, crowded square and the voices around him hushed to whispers, and then to silence.

Nothing happened for a short while and Matthias obeyed the flow of the mob pushing him on towards the centre. Then came the clatter of hooves and wheels against cobblestones and the crowd parted like waves when a rickety cart and its armed escort came into the open, the bodies shuffling and rearranging until Matthias found himself facing an empty expanse and the promise of a first-row seat to the grim performance to come.

Barely visible between the soldiers clustered along the sides, the cart was a crude contraption, nothing more than thin, unpolished planks of wood fastened together on two wheels and bordered by cross-shaped rails. The mule harnessed to it looked scrawny and mean as it inched forward, flicking its long ears and snorting distrustfully at the monk holding the reins, until it thrust its hooves stubbornly into the ground and refused to budge. The monk pulled impatiently at the reins but the mule pranced on place, drawing deep lines into the dirt and pushing the cart back against the hassled escort. Curses echoed as the soldiers moved away, some to the sides, some stepping up to grab the unruly animal.

And, as the last barrier that stood against the eyes of the crowd stood apart, Matthias drew his breath sharply when his gaze fell on not one, but two prisoners – a man and a child.

It was not often that the clergy would shift their scrutiny from the womenfolk and hunt for witches elsewhere, yet Matthias saw at once why they had settled upon the man kneeling in the wooden cart. He saw the beauty of his face even under the layers of blood and grime that tried to conceal it, his features so delicately shaped that they conjured up visions of sprites and elves from old legends, and his skin and hair so pale that they seemed kissed by the moon. Feyness clung to him like a mask and pooled within his eyes, large and devoid of any feeling, and, as he held his head high proudly, his gaze never drifted, as if immersed in a world beyond.

His slender body made him appear almost frail in the midst of the stout guards, but he had been no easy prey if one were to judge by the battered looks of some of his captors. Yet Matthias wished the prisoner had been less brave, less defiant, for the offended men had been quick to exact their revenge. His lower lip was split and swollen and a trail of blood had congealed into his hairline and down his cheek, pointing at more bruises and cuts that started along his neck and disappeared inside his torn shirt. They had tied his hands with rope behind his back and then fastened his arms against the rail so tightly that his shoulders were nearly twisted out of their sockets, while nothing betrayed the pain he must have been feeling but the rigid set of his jaw.

They had left the child unbound, too dismissive of his young age to deem him a threat, or maybe confident that wherever the other prisoner might be taken, he would follow. Matthias brushed his gaze questioningly over him. The child clung tightly to his companion, circling him with his arms in a desperate embrace and burying his head against his chest. Under loose strands of hair so light that they appeared impossibly white, his half-hidden face betrayed the same graceful contours, his cheekbones less high and proud and chin less sharp, yet bearing a close resemblance to the man at his side. They could be nothing else than brothers, Matthias decided, too close in years for a father and son, and he shook his head in pity at the understanding.

The townsfolk shared no such feeling. They watched with greedy eyes, whispering in each other's ears with voices hushed but filled with expectation. Whatever deed the two captives had done to deserve the clergy’s ire, it could not have been so terribly offensive, Matthias surmised, for the crowd appeared to be seeking entertainment rather than retribution. Yet the longer the procession kept still under their searching gazes, the more restless they grew, stirring and raising their voices and daring one another to act. At his right, someone bent to pick a stone from the dirt, and without thinking Matthias reached out to seize the man’s arm, knowing that once the first stone was tossed the second would be quick to follow.

And his hand froze half-way when both captives turned to look upon the assailer with an uncanny synchronicity. The man’s gaze was dark and daunting in its emptiness, but it was the sight of his brother’s eyes that made Matthias curse softly and take a step back in awe. Even in the dimming light of the approaching evening, the open eyelids revealed a rich purple the likes of which he’d never encountered before, and an unfathomable intensity that had no place to linger on a child’s face.

Under the strength of their icy stare the townsman faltered and staggered on his feet, and the stone slid from his numb fingers. He tried to speak but no words came out, then he swallowed, and found his voice in a trembling cry.

“Witch!”

Matthias groaned. Around him more voices rose, speaking of devils and pyres, and more men and women armed themselves with stones. The prisoner’s lips moved in a stifled hiss and the child shook his head stubbornly. And finally laughter echoed, low and dangerous, as a stone flew to collide against the man’s already tortured shoulder. His face twisted for the first time in a grimace of pain, but his eyes never left his brother’s, and his mouth shaped a single word. _Please_.

Matthias watched the child slide reluctantly to the bottom of the cart, and then searched the square for more threats. The stone had rolled nearby, one sharp edge smeared with blood. The guards had moved out of the harm’s way, clearly content to stand aside and allow the scene unfold, only waking from their indolence long enough to push aside a boy who had rushed in their midst, screaming in rightful anger. The boy stumbled and fell, and as he lifted his head Matthias recognized the keen lavender gaze from only minutes before.

“It’s too late now, kid,” he muttered, and his wrath sparked at his own hesitation. There was nothing more to be done, he told himself again. The captive would know pain again, perhaps no sharper than what he would endure thereafter at the hands of the church, and then he would perish at the end of a noose should fate show him mercy. If not… Matthias tried to banish the vision of flames eating at bruised, pale skin that had suddenly invaded his thoughts.

It was then that a rider entered the square at a gallop, scattering the townspeople away from the reach of the massive hooves of his horse, and reined in with flawless precision alongside the handful of watchmen.

Even Matthias, though taller than most, felt dwarfed by the size of the rider and his horse. The newcomer held himself straight in the saddle, holding his grey behemoth of a horse in check with apparent ease. His face, sculpted in stern, rigid lines was hidden behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and the plain, blue cloak thrown back on his shoulders revealed a uniform that lacked any adornment but a sword with the sheath and hilt engraved with intricate heraldry.

The guards eyed the sword with grimaces of undisguised confusion, until the man who seemed to hold more authority bowed his head in salute and spoke up.

“Welcome, Commander. Pray forgive us for not sending an escort to greet you, but you were not expected until tomorrow.”

The stranger appeared to pay him no heed. Anger sparked in his harsh eyes as he turned in the saddle to survey the scene, his gaze shifting from the eager faces of the townspeople to the dark robes of the monks, brushing over the battered figure of the bound man and coming back to settle on the worried guard.

All movement ceased and the crowd held their breath, waiting for him to speak.

A single word came out of his mouth.

"Explain."

The guard’s hands began to shake under the inquisitive stare and his voice stammered. “J-just an errand for the Church, Commander. Orders from the Abbot to apprehend these two witches and bring them to the monastery for trial."

The Commander pressed his mouth in a thinner line and nodded once, then dismounted and threw the bridle on the guard’s arm. He took the three steps that separated him from the captives and, pressing the back of his gloved hand under the bound man's jaw, he tilted his face upwards. Indigo eyes stared back at him defiantly, as if daring him to attempt his worst, and he let go with an unreadable expression. Within moments, he removed a dagger from the sheath inside his boot and cut in one swift move the rope holding the prisoner fastened to the rail. The man fell against the side of the card with a barely heard sigh, and then slumped into the waiting arms of his brother.

The Commander eyed the small gathering of watchmen with undisguised disdain.

"So the town guards have become a pack of hunting dogs standing at the clergy’s beck and call? You will take these prisoners to the Watch House. There will be a trial conducted by the Magistrate and a punishment dealt according to the law should they be proven guilty.”

His words were clipped as though by restraint or disuse, but his voice carried an undertone of power that made his order unquestionable. Conflict surfaced in the guard’s stare but he did not dare disobey. Nodding tersely, he turned to his men and instructed them with a quick gesture to follow, yet before they could move two dark figures stepped forth, and the watchmen’s eyes clang to them with hope restored.

"Commander, a word if I may." The voice belonged to a small yet burly monk, who seemed more used to hard labor than cunning words until one noticed the shrewd gaze half-hidden beneath his cowl. At his side, a second monk was shifting his feet uneasily, pulling with gnarled fingers at the dirty, lank hair around his bald patch and blinking rapidly his red-rimmed eyes. "I am Prior Tobias, right hand to Abbot Olav. We are under orders from the Bishop himself to root out and apprehend the witch threat, for the preservation of our Church."

The Commander glanced once more at the prisoners. The bound man’s face looked strikingly young as he lay in the boy’s trembling arms, his eyes half-closed and his exposed neck trailed with bruises.

"Do your orders also entail tormenting children?"

"Children?" the other monk cried out in a high-pitched voice. "Trust not your eyes, for the devil's guile knows no bounds. These wretched creatures," he pointed with a shaking finger, "are devil’s ilk, gifted with a child’s likeness to stir your pity and deliver them from their rightful fate!”

"Enough with this nonsense!" the Commander barked. "Return to your monastery and let Abbot Olav know he can seek me out if he wants to speak against my decision."

Prior Tobias bowed his head and took a step back in acknowledgement. "The Abbot is now making ready for the evening's prayers, but come morrow you will hear from us again, Commander."

The Commander nodded, and then dismissed the monks from his attention, turning once more to his men. "Take the prisoners away and scatter the crowd, or I will have you punished for disobedience.”

A sharp blow to the mule’s side got the animal on the move. As the cart began to roll, a guard came to stand in front of Matthias and jabbed his chest with the pommel of his sword.

"Go home, there’s nothing more to see here," the man grumbled.

Matthias raised his hands in an appeasing gesture and backed away in a nearby alley. The sun was setting and he was certain to get lost in the dark, unfamiliar streets, but he had no wish to return to his companions just yet, his thoughts too crowded with strange, inscrutable eyes and unanswered questions.

 

* * *

 

By the time the convoy reached the Watch House the town had plunged into darkness, and no other light lingered under the clouded sky but the candle flames quivering faintly here and there behind closed windows.

The building stood barely visible on the other end of a narrow courtyard marked on three sides as the Watch’s property by a wrought iron fence that ended firmly lodged into the thick stone walls. A guard stepped forward and tapped the blunt edge of his sword against the locked gate. The metallic sound spread in echoes and a door cracked open, spilling torchlight as a man came to stand on the steps. The guard called out to him and the man disappeared back inside. A short moment passed and he emerged once more carrying a lit torch, then came to the fence and fumbled with one hand at the lock and chain that held the gate secure.

As he waited for the gate to open, the Commander dismounted and tied the reins to a post. Under his watchful eyes, the guards were helping the prisoners get off the cart. The child jumped down easily enough but the man stumbled, hindered by his bound hands, and he hissed when a watchman grabbed his shoulder to steady him.

“Careful,” the Commander instructed and followed them through the open gate.

The prison was built below ground, in a wine cellar that had been given a new face when, years before, the house had changed ownership and purpose. The space could barely fit three cells on each side of a corridor so narrow that it did not allow two people to walk shoulder to shoulder. The cells had been furnished with thick wooden doors and solid latches, irons bars blocked the small, square holes allowed as sole source of ventilation in the place were the back wall was rising slightly above the street, and the prison had been deemed satisfactory for a town that rarely faced worse criminals than drunkards or ruffians, and where the miscreants were not known to be put under lock and key for more than a night or two.

The entrance had remained unchanged from the days when the cellar would host nothing more harmless than bottles of aging wine – a trap door cut in the floor of a pantry turned guardroom, occupied now by two low benches and a table covered in melted wax and food stains. Under the trap door, steep stairs descended into darkness and the torch bearers climbed down first, holding the flame high above his head to light the way for the others.

The Commander was the last to descend, stooping carefully under the low ceiling, and he kept still for a moment to consider his surroundings. Two rows of doors stood ajar, revealing empty cells shrouded in darkness, and the air was cold and damp. Guards and captives huddled together in the narrow space, waiting for his orders, and his gaze traveled thoughtfully from the child’s frightened eyes to the man’s worn-out body.

"Here and there," he instructed at last, pointing at two cells on either end of the corridor. "Bring some food and more light."

The child gasped, and a single cry broke from his lips. “Lukas!”

A flash of panic crossed the other prisoner’s face, but before he could struggle a guard seized his arm and forced him inside the cell nearest to the stairs. The Commander took a torch from one of his men, and then followed the captive inside, closing the door behind him.

For a few moments, he simply busied himself securing the torch inside an iron ring lodged between two stones in the wall. The prisoner had not moved, and when the Commander finished his task he saw that the other man had recomposed his features in an impassive mask.

“Turn around,” he said, removing once more the dagger from his boot.

The prisoner’s gaze traveled from the weapon to the taller man’s unperturbed eyes, and when he turned his back at last, the Commander could have sworn that only the bonds around his wrists were keeping him from raising his shoulders in a shrug. He took a step closer and drew the blade over the ropes, watching them slide to the ground in long, frayed pieces.

The prisoner waited quietly until the last knot fell, and then rotated his shoulders once, with the muted snap of articulations falling into place. Then he spun to face the Commander again, holding his arms rigidly at his side in what appeared to the other man as a struggle to keep himself from touching the raw skin on his wrists.

Both men waited quietly for a long moment, as if taking each other’s measure.

"So, Lukas..?” the Commander finally spoke, breaking the uneasy silence.

The other man only blinked, seemingly unwilling to reveal anything else.

“Fine. Just Lukas,” the Commander conceded with a frown. “My name is Berwald Oxenstierna. You have nothing to fear from me,” he added as an afterthought, blaming the prisoner’s reluctance on the only thing he could think of.

The young man had yet to utter a word, but Berwald had never expected that the first sound to escape from his lips would be a dry, hollow laughter. The uncanny mirth died as soon as it had surfaced, and when the man spoke his voice was soft and the way he tried to spare his injured lip gave it a strained lilt.

"I do not fear you; I am simply questioning your motivation."

Ever since he could remember, Berwald had faced the world with forbidding eyes and lips that never seemed to smile. He knew joy and sorrow as well as any other human could, yet somehow his feelings seldom forged their way outside the confines of his soul. At first it had been a source of great anguish, but as the years passed by he had learned to live with the fear, or uneasiness at best, that his tall stature and stern, commanding countenance inspired.

And now he could barely conceal his bewilderment as he watched the prisoner who, though weary and wounded, confronted him with the pride of royalty in rags.

"Witchcraft is nothing but nonsense spewed by the Church to keep ignorant folk on their leash," he answered. A bitter smile seemed to twist the other man's lips, yet faded away so fast that Berwald dismissed it as an illusion of the flickering torchlight and went on. “Still, accusations have been made and I cannot let you go without a fair trial to clear your name, lest you be hunted again by some zealots."

Lukas tilted his head slightly to the left and stared with a look in his eyes that made Berwald feel inadequate. "Fair trial? For a man in your position you are quite naive, Berwald Oxenstierna. If you truly wish to help, then take care that no matter what happens to me, my brother remains unharmed."

Berwald raised an eyebrow at the half-veiled insult but decided to let it go, storing in his mind the detail that the prisoner had let slip. "Make no mistake, I intend to save both of you. We must talk more, but for now I will let you rest and send for a healer to treat your injuries."

Lukas shook his head in disdain. "There’s no need. Clean rags and some water will serve me better than the healer ever could."

The Commander scrutinized him once more, appraising the gravity of his wounds and wondering what to make of the new insight. "As you wish," he conceded at last. "I will see you again in the morning." Without speaking another word, he turned on his heel and left the cell.

The metallic thud of the bolt sliding into place made Lukas flinch, and in his solitude he made no attempt to conceal it. He approached the door with faltering steps and ran his fingers slowly over the unpolished wood, as though testing its solidity. It stood strong and immovable, and Lukas let himself slide to the ground, resting his head against the unyielding surface.

He sat there for a while, his body still but for the heavy breath rattling inside his chest, until the hinges of the trapdoor above screeched loudly and the corridor echoed with heavy footsteps. Lukas raised his head, suddenly alert. The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door and he stood up hurriedly. Then came the muffled thud of a weight touching the floor, followed by a short struggle as a hand fumbled with the bolt, and the door finally flew open. The guard standing on the doorstep barely spared him a glance. He pushed a laden tray inside with his foot, retrieved the torch and slammed the door shut, leaving the cell shrouded in the half-light spilling through the narrow, barred window that had been carved in the wooden planks.

Lukas sighed and knelt next to the tray at his feet, pushing it further to the spot on the floor where the window cast a luminous square. A cup of water stood closest and he grabbed it and drank deeply, mindless of the sting in his lip and the drops that trickled awkwardly from the corner of his mouth, until he washed away the taste of ash and dirt. He put the cup aside and sifted through the rest of the small hoard, gritting his teeth at the thought that it brought nothing but further proof of the Commander’s goodwill.

Bread, which he pushed away when his stomach squirmed at the notion of holding anything solid. More water in a wide, earthen bowl filled to the brim. A roll of bandages, a tiny jar of salve and, hidden under a stack of clean cloth, a needle and thread.

Lukas shook off the tattered remains of his shirt, soaked a piece of cloth in water and began to clean the dirt and dried blood from his skin. He worked slowly, methodically, unveiling the darkening bruises that lay hidden under layers of dust, feeling gently for cracks in the ribs and pouring a handful of water over the shallow cut on his shoulder, until he reached the web of grazes on his neck.

And then his anger began to flare brighter and brighter with every stroke of his hand, _anger at_ _the heavy boot pressed against his neck, holding him down even as he claws weakly at the thick leather. Air comes in sparse breaths and blood drenches his hair where the blunt edge of a sword had split skin and the man above him laughs, grinding his foot down. Lukas feels like his collarbone is about to break, and for a second he_ knows _he will die there, gasping for air in the dirt, when the pressure relents and a voice pierces through the pounding in his years._

_“…he wouldn’t want any harm to come to his beloved brother, would he?”_

_The weight is gone and Lukas turns on his side, drawing breath in until his lungs are close to bursting. You should have run away, stupid, brave little brother, he thinks and overwhelming shame engulfs him when a blow to the chest throws him back to the ground, under the frightened gaze of the child he could not protect._

_“Fucking coward,” he spits at the self-satisfied monk when they finally lift him to his feet, but it’s a guard’s gloved hand that strikes him over the mouth in retaliation and Lukas tastes his own blood as they force his hands behind his back._

Lukas tilted his head to reach the scrape under his chin and focused on the burning sensation to banish all other thoughts. It served no purpose to remember, other than to fuel his rage and cloud his mind. He took the jar of salve and removed the stopper. The pungent smell of herbs filled the cell and helped Lukas compose himself some with its familiarity as he smeared the ointment over bruises and skin rubbed raw. He wrapped bandages around his wrists and neck, dabbed two fingers in the salve and touched them to his swollen lip, and then nothing else remained to be done but the most grisly of his tasks.

Lukas held no illusions as to the gash under his hairline. He threaded the needle and set it aside, then dipped a fresh cloth in the small quantity of clean water that was still left in the cup and wiped it over his forehead. As flecks of congealed blood peeled off, fresh drops began to trickle anew, soaking into the fabric. Yet Lukas did not pause. When he deemed the wound clean enough, he grasped the needle in his right hand and felt the wound with his left. He thrust the needle through his skin right under the end of his fingertips, keeping the gash closed, and went on blindly, one stitch at a time, closing his eyes under the new flow of blood. Warm droplets of crimson caught into his eyelashes and then dripped down his cheek, and Lukas steeled himself against the sickening sensation of thread running through flesh, _every bruise, every sting of pain, you deserve it, for your carelessness and your stupidity._

By the time he was done, his hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold the needle, and his head swam with pain and exhaustion. The need to rest became overwhelming and he sat back on his heels, looking around the cell for the first time. There was nothing resembling a table or a chair, or anything else for that matter but a makeshift bed, nothing more than a straw mattress raised on a low frame of wooden planks and covered with a ragged old blanket.

Lukas gathered his shirt from the floor and stood up when a sudden rush of cold air revealed the presence of a window. It was a narrow opening, built close to the ceiling but just low enough for him to rest his elbows against the thick slabs of stone and peek through the bars at the outside world. It opened to a back street, so close to the ground that Lukas could discern nothing else in the shadows but the shapes of cobblestones and the foundations of the houses across.

As he stood there, a single ray of moonlight pierced the darkness and came to rest on the ground. Lukas reached out through the bars and the speck of light came to dance for a moment on the palm of his hand, only to be whisked away again behind the amassing clouds. His fingers closed around empty air. With a sigh, he withdrew his arm and moved away from the window, then sank on the bed, his mind empty as his eyes followed the play of shadows wavering on the wall in the dying torchlight.


	2. Encounters

_The world feels so much different through half-closed eyelids. Pale light dances on trembling eyelashes, colors swirling and shifting, white melts to gold, gold to crimson, crimson to darkness. In the heart of the vortex only one hue remains unchanging, and Tino struggles to recognize it, is it blue? Green? Is this the sky above him? Nothing seems right and he is close to tears, the need to remember so intense, so vital. And then he knows. Lavender, delicate petals swaying in the breeze, fields and fields of flowers lying at his feet. He draws a deep breath, hungry for the fresh, pungent fragrance, yet the smell comes metallic and he does not understand why it hurts so much to simply breathe, why his body rattles. A steady drip lingers at the edge of his hearing - rain? Are raindrops trickling down his outstretched arm and through his fingers?_

_A new sound forces his eyes open and violet eyes swim into focus before him, familiar and yet so wrong, frozen and empty and sunken. He tries to look away but his body does not obey him, and his heart rushes in fear when a shadow falls on his face and slender, cool fingers brush against his forehead. His lips are gently pried open and a sweet liquid runs down his tongue and he cannot help but swallow. His mind feels more lucid now and his chest is no longer too tight to breathe and he can finally contemplate the stranger leaning above him, his gaze hard, his mouth drawn in a thin, angry line. The stranger's palm is now pressed against Tino's arm, holding tight, and his lips move in a silent whisper. The fingers come away bloody, but as his arm is carefully set down along his body, Tino can feel a dull pain_ _through his veins_ _slowly fading and wonders why he became aware of it only now, when it's nearly gone. The stranger is reaching for the tightly sealed window and Tino wants to yell at him to stop, the healer warned that cold air would make the pain in his chest worse, but no words come out and the window swings open and Tino forgets all that he wanted to say, for the fresh air feels so good and God he's never seen the moonlight so bright. It shines like a halo in the stranger's blonde hair, and Tino suddenly remembers that the doors are always locked at night; his father and the healer sit motionless in their chairs, living statues, and his mother lays on her bed, her lavender gaze rigid and empty, and he asks, looking at him with eyes round and innocent, "Are you an angel?" The stranger's grim mouth softens in a half-shaped smile, and his voice is a soothing monotone. "Hardly. I am Lukas." The stranger comes to kneel next to his mother's bed and his fingers caress her eyelids close. "I am sorry," he whispers, and Tino has to struggle to make out the words, "I came too late, I am so sorry. But you can be at peace for your child will live." With a sigh he stands up, and Tino understands with searing clarity that his mother is gone, and remembers how the healer drew their blood with the promise to take the sickness away, and now he knows it was wrong, so wrong, and must not happen to anyone else, ever again. He cannot let the stranger go, but he's already pushing the door open, and in his haste Tino forces the blanket frantically away and stumbles on the cold wooden floor and his fingers grip the man's coat tightly as he turns. "Teach me," he gasps, "teach me how to make people well again."_

_The stranger looks down at him, his face unreadable, his gaze searching deep into Tino's eyes, but the child does not shy away, and finally a subtle shift in the man's features shows he's given in. He lifts the child in arms that feel slender yet strong and sets him down on the bed, covering him with the discarded blanket. "When you are old enough I will find you again. Now sleep." And Tino's eyes close despite himself._

 

* * *

 

The unrelenting pounding at his door dragged Tino out from the murky depths of his nightmare-ridden sleep at a painfully early hour. His instincts took over his half-aware mind and his body struggled to rise, but the sheets held fast, tightly twisted around his numb limbs, and he lay back on his pillow, his hair drenched with sweat, his breath erratic. A ghostly pain still pulsed on his skin where jagged wood had dug sharply against his dream flesh as he was kneeling down on an unlit pyre. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to run, to lose himself in the crowd of faceless onlookers, but Lukas was a dead weight in his arms, his lips coated with blood, and Emil was clutching his shoulder in a desperate grip. A torch was thrown and flames sprang high, dancing and fluttering like a wind-swept veil, yet Tino could feel neither heat nor burn when the fire brushed by him, _through_ him. The silver-haired boy was wailing in agony at his side but Tino did not turn; instead he twined his fingers into Lukas' and lifted the inert hand, watching in fascination as the flames licked at his friend's skin, leaving his own unscathed. The air grew thick with ash and from Lukas' fingers nothing remained but bleached bones, still Tino could not take his eyes away, even as the first traces of consciousness began to unravel the fabric of his illusion.

He was blinking dazedly, the memory of flames still playing behind his eyelids, when his father cracked the door open. "What's keeping you, boy?" he inquired, frowning at Tino's disheveled state. "The guests are waking and I need you downstairs."

Drawing a deep breath, Tino managed to muster just enough composure to keep his voice from shaking. "I'll be right there, Father," he answered, yanking his legs free from the tangle of sheets. The innkeeper shot him a warning look and pulled the door shut.

It took several minutes of fumbling for fresh clothes in the gloom before Tino realized that the wooden shutters were closed against his windows, and the soft light of dawn was pouring in through the cracks. Cursing his sleep-addled brain, he unlatched the shutters and leant out, letting the cool air chase away the last traces of his nightmare. And, as the sunrise set the clouds ablaze, he promised himself he would not dwell on omens of death. All his life he'd been set apart by an utter faith in miracles that had yet to be shaken, and his heart remained bright where others might have turned jaded or fallen prey to despair. His had never been a charmed life, spared from grief and tears, but even as a child, as he had cried and suffered for his mother, he had never ceased to cling to the one ray of sunshine in the darkness - the stubborn belief that he'd been stolen from the clutches of death so that he, in his turn, could spare others from the same fate. And finally, at the end of two years, when he'd all but put the memory of Lukas out of his mind as a fevered dream and had taken apprenticeship with the healer for the meager knowledge he might gain, Lukas returned, just as he had promised. Tino came across him one evening, sitting under the shelter of a pine tree, only two steps away from the healer's gates, and he stopped in his tracks dumbstruck, torn between the joy that Lukas had proven to be more than just a figment of his imagination, and the amazement that the young man had known exactly where to find him. Lukas raised an amused eyebrow.

"I see you've been waiting for me," he drawled in that impassive voice of his, and Tino found no other answer but to throw his arms around the other's neck and cry his heart out in relief. Lukas flinched, but then his arms closed around the boy, warm and comforting, and Tino did not let go until small, jealous hands tried to pry him away. The strangest child he had ever seen was glaring at him with round, purple eyes from under silver locks, and his lower lip stuck out in a pout so adorable that Tino could not help but smile and ruffle his hair, making the child frown even deeper, and hiss and spit at him like a kitten. Lukas burst into laughter, something Tino would later discover to be a sight quite rare.

"Come, Emil, play nice," he chided, "the two of you will be spending a lot of time together."

And, true to his word, he began to teach Tino the very next day, asking for only one thing in return - that Tino would keep going back to the healer and pretend that all his newfound skills came from the old man. Lukas possessed the knowledge of herbs and shared it willingly, yet Tino wondered more often than not what other secrets he was hiding, and what really happened during those nights when yet another of the townsfolk recovered miraculously from the brink of death, while the following day he would attend his two lessons, the sanctioned and the secret one, only to find the healer boasting about his craft and Lukas almost swaying on his feet, with dark shadows under his eyes and his mind elsewhere. He had never pried though, not even in the beginning, when the two brothers would unsettle him with their odd ways every so often, and, as the months passed by, he discovered that behind his cold eyes and emotionless mask Lukas would actually listen, and that Emil's endless bickering was only meant to hide how much the boy really cared. And somehow this made Tino feel at ease, more so than in his own home, where strangers would come and go, and his father and he would tiptoe around each other, the older man too worn out to have any patience for a son who could still dream and take joy in life, and Tino too painfully aware that he might never grow up into the strong, down-to-earth son his father desired. The stolen hours spent with his new friends became treasured memories to be cherished, only marred by the barely hidden fear that one day the reclusive brothers would choose to depart from his life as mysteriously as they had appeared. Yet he had never foreseen that one day they would be so ruthlessly taken away, nor did he give in to the notion that they might be lost to him. His friends had lived to see another day, and that was enough for him - even if fate did not rescue them, Tino would do everything in his power to find a way.

Tino's mind was brimming with half-shaped plans as he rushed down the stairs, so oblivious to the outside world that he failed to remember a certain wobbly plank that had been waiting for quite some time for its turn to be mended. His foot caught in the treacherous step and he tumbled down, his arms flailing madly but failing to reach the rails, only to crush head first into the blonde man emerging with a yawn from the corridor on the first floor. The man yelped in surprise but regained his footing with ease, and then held his hand out for Tino, who had toppled to the floor in an unbecoming heap.

"We really need to stop meeting like this, kid," he smirked, and Tino frowned in confusion, scrutinizing the vaguely familiar features. The man mistook Tino's prolonged silence for fear and winked conspiratorially. "You don’t need to worry, kid. I know you meant no harm."

Tino ignored the proffered hand and picked himself up from the floor. "Don't call me that," he muttered, poking gingerly at the bruise that had freshly bloomed on his arm. It rewarded him with an uncomfortable sting, and he could not help but feel avenged when a woman approached and smacked the obnoxious blonde over the back of his head.

"Are you harassing children now, Matthias?" she asked in a menacingly sweet tone.

"As a matter of fact, the young man here has just pointed out that he should by no means be looked upon as a child, so the answer to your question is no, Lizzie," he grinned, ducking his head just in time to escape another blow, and then disappeared down the stairs.

The woman huffed in annoyance. "How many times do I need to tell you not to call me that!" she shouted after him, then turned to Tino and shrugged apologetically. "Don't mind him, he's an idiot."

Tino nodded solemnly. "I noticed," he answered, and the woman burst into laughter, her green eyes twinkling with merriment.

"You, I like," she declared. "Come see our play, will you?"

She waved her hand and followed her companion, leaving Tino to stare bemusedly after them. Their guests had always come in all shapes and sizes, but those two struck him as the strangest pair yet. With a sigh, he went down the last flight of stairs and stepped into the common room. His father hurried past him, carrying a tray laden with empty plates.

"You surely took your own sweet time, boy," the innkeeper grumbled as his son came to join him. "The new Commander of the Watch rented one of our rooms yesterday and you are to attend to him, understood?"

As his father pushed him towards a small table at the back of the room, Tino's heart made a joyful somersault. Once again, life had dealt him a lucky card in the shape of a frighteningly tall man whose face seemed frozen in a never-ending scowl, and who had more power than anyone else to change the fate of his friends.

Matthias stifled another yawn as he descended the last steps. He had found his way to the inn in the late hours of the evening and had come across his companions in the common room, engrossed in a noisy conversation around steamy mugs of wine. Plastering his usual grin on his face, he had made a half-hearted attempt to join them, but halfway through the first drink he had found his mind not only strangely devoid of any trace of his rather impressive collection of bad jokes and blunt comebacks, but also uncharacteristically allergic to his companions' merriment. He had declined all offers of dinner or further drinks and retired to bed, feigning weariness. Escaping had been an easy feat. In mock concern, his friends had thrown his way several inquiries upon his health and then shrugged and let him have his will. Loneliness, though, had proven to be an unseemly ally. Sleep had failed to come, and he had squirmed under the blankets long after Gilbert had claimed the spare bed. Only when a pillow had hit him square in the face and the albino’s irate voice had informed him in no uncertain terms that he'd be spending the remainder of the night out in the street, had he settled in a restless sleep. Morning had found him both unbelievably lethargic and ravenously hungry, and at a loss of what itch to scratch, and only the thought that as soon as breakfast was over either Arthur or Elizaveta, or even both if his luck ran out, would barge in on his sweet sleep and force him to go unfed through the rest of the day, had made him drag himself from the bed and out of the room.

And as the first whiffs of freshly baked bread and fried bacon reached his nostrils, Matthias no longer rued his decision and quickened his pace as he crossed the room to the long table occupied by his companions. He only paused on his way to pick up Peter, who was making faces at the stern Commander of the Watch from behind the shelter of a large barrel. Reluctantly admiring the man's composure - no muscle on his face had stirred in amusement or anger - he deposited the struggling child on the bench, at his brother’s side.

"I found something of yours, Arthur," he informed his companion. Arthur glared at the child, who promptly kicked him in the shin. The man burrowed his head in his hands.

"Sometimes I wonder why I even bother," he groaned.

"That's why," Gilbert stopped shoveling food long enough to point in the general direction of two buxom serving wenches cooing and throwing adoring glances at the child. Matthias took advantage of the moment of distraction to drop on the bench next to the albino and steal a piece of buttered bread from his plate.

"Thank you Gilbert, my life makes sense again," Arthur replied, sarcasm dripping heavily from every word. Gilbert grinned and pushed his hair away from his eyes. He was wearing a dark wig that completely concealed his snow-white hair and made his eyes shine a reddish brown rather than their usual crimson.

"You can always count on the awesome me to rescue my friends in need!" As Matthias' hand snaked to grab another morsel, Gilbert slapped it away with his fork. "Get your own food, will you?"

"So much for helping a friend in need," Matthias complained, but signaled a passing wench to approach.

Gilbert waited to speak until the other man had ordered his breakfast. "So what sort of witch did they catch this time? A hag who grew one too many warts? A maiden so pretty that she made all other women jealous?"

Matthias' eyes darkened. "Neither. A man and a boy, brothers I believe."

"Men?" Gilbert raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Did this town run out of misbehaving women? Let's get away from here before I die a painful death in the clutches of boredom."

Matthias paid him no heed and began to trace a crack in the wooden table, his features suddenly hard. "There was something in their eyes I could not quite place, as if they had seen things beyond our reach. And they were trapped, tormented, yet showed no trace of fear." He looked up and met Arthur's gaze just in time to catch a glimpse of interest on the other man's face. Arthur coughed and looked swiftly away.

"So they were brave witches. Much good will it do when the priesthood tries to wrest a confession out of them. You'd better forget about them, Matthias. You know very well that nobody can escape from the Church’s greedy clutches."

The three men continued to eat in uneasy silence untill Elizaveta joined them with Feliks in tow.

"Why the long faces?" she asked, throwing a suspicious look from one man to another. Neither deemed to answer. "If you had another fight, you'd better settle it soon, for we have a busy day ahead of us. The innkeeper told me we are allowed to perform in the town square should either the Commander of the Watch or the Magistrate consent. And, considering that the Commander sits only a couple of tables away, I'd say we seize the chance and speak with him now."

"But you'll have to do it without me," Feliks chimed in. "That man is, like, giving me the creeps."

Five pairs of eyes turned in the direction of the infamous Commander, but to their surprise the scowl on his face had almost surrendered to what could only be described as a smile, as he could not take his gaze away from a certain lavender-eyed boy.

 

* * *

 

Tino had spent his entire life in an inn, and had had his faire share of dealing with - or rather seeing them dealt with thanks to his father's brawn and menacing frown - drunkards, rough sailors, shady merchants and countless other individuals of dubious repute. Yet none of them had held such power over his buckling knees as the Commander's approaching sight. The man looked, Tino mused, as if he was ready to slaughter an entire host of outlaws, eat their livers and come home for a second supper, all in a day's work. The thought conjured at once the altogether disturbing image of the Commander trampling on maimed corpses and taking bites from a bloodied liver that seemed altogether to large to have belonged to a human being. The boy cursed the devious workings of his own mind and kept dragging his feet in his father’s tow, while searching in vain for the one happy thought that could purge the troubling fantasy from his brain.

Oblivious to his son's distress, the innkeeper strode purposefully across the room and stopped next to Berwald's table, coughing politely. Berwald lifted a questioning gaze.

"Commander Oxenstierna, this is my son, Tino," the innkeeper pushed the boy forward. "He spends most of the day helping me run the inn, so please call for him whenever you need assistance."

Berwald nodded and the innkeeper rushed away at a guest's call, leaving Tino alone and ill at ease under the man's hard glare.

As silence lingered, Tino began to panic. _Say something, you have to say something_ , he thought frantically.

"G-good morning, I hope the liver was to your liking."

Berwald raised an eyebrow and his stare traveled from Tino to his plate, which contained only the harmless remains of a cheese pie and some egg shells, and then back to Tino. The boy gulped. _Great, now you've made him angry, you need his help, you must not make it even worse._

“Ah, the cook finally served something else than liver for breakfast, we've been trying to make her stop for ages, haha.." _Close your mouth right now, before you say something even dumber._ He searched the Commander's stern features for a sign of appeasement. His gaze fell on the man's eyes, so easy to overlook behind the wire-rimmed glasses, and his breath hitched. The eyes held the most fascinating hue of blue-green, shifting like the ocean's waters, and hid no trace of malice. Rather, to Tino's astonishment, they were shining with something akin to mirth. The boy drew a deep breath. _Start again, you can do it, Tino._ He extended his hand in greeting.

"Good morning Commander, my name is Tino, is there anything I can help you with?"

Berwald's lips curled upwards in the beginning of a smile. He pushed his chair back, sat up and took Tino's hand. It disappeared completely under his much larger fingers. "Call me Berwald. And I need you to show me the way to the stables."

At a nearby table, Arthur put his fork down hurriedly and tried to rise. "Come on, we need to catch him before he leaves."

Elizaveta's hand pushed him back down. "Don't you dare disturb them now, Arthur Kirkland!"

Gilbert looked from Elizaveta's enraptured features to the unlikely couple and burst into laughter. "You have a dirty, dirty mind, Liz."

Arthur had just picked his fork up again when it was snatched from his hand only to connect painfully with the albino's head a second later.

Berwald followed Tino into the broad backyard which hosted the wooden stables and a shelter built to accommodate the occasional cart or two. His expression had frozen back into a scowl since his sternly chiseled features were not accustomed to sustain a smile, yet inwardly he was enjoying himself more than he'd expected when he had woken up for the new day. The morning's first task was already laid out for him and he suspected that learning how his newly appointed Commander of the Watch had defied the Church with the full intent of winning the ensuing conflict was not what the Magistrate expected from the first audience with the aforementioned Commander. When his gaze had first fallen on the boy, he had became instantly aware of two things – that Tino possessed the kindest, loveliest face he has ever seen, and that he was obviously terrified of being in his presence. Berwald could not blame the boy as he knew very well that dark thoughts made his forbidding countenance even more frightening, and he had sighed inwardly, expecting Tino to turn tail and never appear within his sight again. And yet the boy had stood his ground and, much to Berwald's disbelief, he had been the first to break the silence. Granted, he could not make heads or tails of Tino's words, but for reasons that escaped him he found Tino's stumbling speech unbelievably entertaining, and even as the boy appeared to warm up to him and revert to a relative coherence, Berwald was still secretly amused by the workings of Tino's mind.

"I love animals so I'll be happy to look after your horse, Commander… I mean Berwald. I can’t possibly call you by name, but I should because you asked me to, right?" Tino said as they passed by a large wagon which, standing altogether too tall to fit under the shelter, was taking up a ridiculous amount of space in the middle of the courtyard. Berwald winced at the mess of bright colors covering the wagon's sides and hoped he would never have to meet the owner of the garish contraption. "I wish I could have a puppy someday, you know, the small and fluffy kind, but Father says that an inn is not a place to keep a dog, where it could disturb the guests or annoy their horses. But," Tino turned for a moment to see if Berwald was following, which left the man wondering how the innkeeper could resist those round, endearing, lavender eyes and deny his son the dog he seemed to want so much, "I still hope to come across a puppy someday, so cute and well-behaved that even Father won't have the heart to drive it away... oh my gosh what was that?"

A string of shrill neighs pierced by desperate cries for help sent both men running towards the stables. They were met with the sight of Berwald's horse rearing up in the stall and hitting the ground with its menacingly large hooves, narrowly missing a small figure huddled in terror against the wall. Berwald rushed forward to grab the horse's mane, but Tino was faster. Taking advantage of his small frame, he ducked under the horse's legs, took hold of the child and rolled beneath the planks separating the stalls and into the adjoining enclosure which, by a sheer stroke of luck, had remained free. It took all of Berwald's strength and patience to calm down the struggling horse, and when he was finally able to let go, he stepped hurriedly into the neighboring stall, half-dreading what he would find. Yet both Tino and the child seemed shaken but mostly unharmed. Tino knelt on the straw, trying to soothe the frightened child, who was sobbing and dripping tears and snot into the older boy's shirt. Certain that he might do more harm than good, Berwald leant against a post, watching Tino with newly found respect.

"Hush, hush, it's all over," Tino whispered against the child's hair. "Please stop crying and tell me your name."

The tiny voice was barely heard between sobs. "P'ter."

Tino nodded. "Very good, Peter. Now do you want to tell me what happened?"

"I wanted to play with the horse and it got mad at me!" Peter bawled.

"Oh Peter," Tino sighed, "horses are not toys to play with, they are big, strong animals that can sometimes hurt you if you're not careful around them. Now let me look at you and see if you're all right." His eyes passed rapidly over Peter's body in search for wounds. The child's clothes looked dirty yet intact. "Do you hurt anywhere?" The child shook his head. "Good, then run along to your parents."

The child did not wait to be told twice and bolted through the door. Tino got up and smiled sheepishly, shaking off straw from his hair. "I wonder what made it behave like that, it seems so gentle now," he pointed at the tall horse, which now looked every inch the tame, friendly animal.

Berwald lifted his hand. Several dry, prickly thistle heads rested in his open palm. "I found these in its coat."

Tino's eyes widened. "Oh, that little rascal! I'm going to have a word or two with his parents. But why didn't you say anything to him?"

"I didn't want to scare him more than he already was," Berwald shrugged.

Tino hesitated for a moment and then a content, bright smile lit up his face. "You are a good man, Berwald. I trust that you will do right by those who need you."

 

* * *

 

If there was something he missed about the capital, Berwald mused, it was the reassuring certainty that whenever his thoughts became too dark or his duty too heavy to bear, he would find it an easy feat to conceal his uniform beneath a cloak hastily thrown on his shoulders and become part of the crowd, an inconspicuous figure in the mass of men and women too lost inside their own worlds of worries and plights to spare a second glance for the tall stranger who crossed their path. Here though, the town was just large enough to allow trade and population to flourish and yet just small enough to have every new face and every new incident argued over supper, at the gates or around market stalls, and turned upside down and inside out until the original event became barely recognizable under a thick layer of gossip. As he made his way along the street leading to the Magistrate's house, Berwald could almost feel the inquisitive stares burn holes in his back and was forced to pretend he did not notice the way in which the townspeople stopped their activities to whisper to each other behind open fingers. It was his own choice, he reminded himself. He had been equally cursed and blessed with a strong body awkwardly sheltering a gentle heart, and with a withdrawn, quiet nature paired with an instinctive revulsion against injustice of any kind. And in the end, it was that very anonymity which he now half-regretted that had proven to be his worst enemy. While his noble heritage ensured that he would not join the military as a mere soldier, a nobleman could be as easily lost among those outranking him by age or by status as a commoner in a crowd, and Berwald found out soon enough that he was too tightly restrained by orders and position to make any significant change for the better. Yet what he lacked in influence he steadily gained in respect, and at the early age of twenty-two, when his peers were still engrossed in the fleeting delights of women, drinks and duels, he was deemed trustworthy enough to receive the position of Commander vacated by his deceased predecessor. Berwald had been well aware that to many others such a position would seem lackluster next to the more engaging life in the capital, yet he had accepted it readily, for it allowed him the freedom he craved. And now, as his steps finally brought him to his destination and a servant ushered him into the Magistrate's parlor, he strengthened his resolve to make use of his position to protect those wronged, even though it forced him to break out of his comfortable shell of silence and the fate had made a cruel joke and brought in his path a proud, disillusioned prisoner who did not trust him and was bound to test his patience in more ways than he could imagine.

The servant had asked him to wait and left him alone with no other explanation, so, disregarding the offer of a seat, Berwald leant against the windowsill with his arms crossed. The muffled sound of voices was drifting inside through an adjoining door, but Berwald decided it was pointless to listen in – after all, it was not so difficult to guess what kind of pressing matter had brought the unknown visitor on the Magistrate's threshold at such early hours. He allowed his gaze to wander around the room instead, in an attempt to figure out the personality of the man he was waiting to meet. The space was large and well used, with several overloaded bookcases lining the walls and snug-looking armchairs skillfully placed in front of the fireplace and around a low, polished wooden table. A piano rested in a corner, piles of music sheets neatly stacked on the cover. And yet it was the kind of furniture which, though devoid of lavish adornments, still appeared delicate enough to make men of Berwald's size feel ill at ease, and the fire was burning too strongly in the hearth, giving off an almost stifling heat.

Before Berwald could begin to lose his patience, the door opened and a man emerged, followed by a figure shrouded in black. Berwald stepped forward to greet them, and both men took a moment to study each other in silence. The Magistrate appeared to be in his early thirties, and displayed the appearance of a cultured man. His intelligent eyes were framed by glasses and his black hair fell around his face in the studied mess that artists sometimes adopted. Yet his expression was haughty and his mouth was set in a line that seemed equally cunning and stubborn, and Berwald became painfully aware that he would not have an easy time dealing with the man standing in front of him.

The Magistrate held out his hand for Berwarld to shake. "Commander Oxenstierna," he spoke with well-polished inflections, "my apologies for keeping you waiting. I am Magistrate Roderich Edelstein, and I believe you've already met Prior Tobias."

"Commander," the monk nodded, his eyes glinting challengingly from beneath his hood. "My duty is regretfully calling me elsewhere, but I'm sure we shall see each other again soon."

Berwald narrowed his eyes at the unwelcome yet not unexpected sight, but nodded with chilling politeness. "I'm looking forward to it."

"I'm sure you do," Prior Tobias chuckled. "Now, Magistrate, Commander, I will take my leave. Please do not bother to summon anyone, I know my way out."

Roderich waited until the monk disappeared behind the door, and then turned to Berwald. "If you would be so kind as to follow me to my study, Commander..."

Berwald allowed the other man to lead the way, and at the Magistrate's invitation he sat down on one of the two chairs facing a massive desk cluttered with paperwork. Roderich stepped around the desk and resumed his seat in his own chair, resting his arms on the wooden surface, fingers interlaced.

"So, Commander," he spoke again, "as pleased as I am to make your acquaintance, I must say that word has reached me that you caused quite a commotion yesterday in the town square."

Berwald schooled his features in a polite mask. "Then you've been misinformed, for the disturbance was already well under way and my involvement only served to end it."

Roderich sighed, took off his glasses and made a show of cleaning them with his handkerchief as he spoke. "You are still very young, Commander, and you’ve spent nearly all your life in the capital, so beyond doubt you are unfamiliar with the customs here, in the countryside. The Church is a powerful presence in our lives, it plays an essential role indeed, and it has been proven to be quite… beneficial for all parts involved to allow the clergy to punish the crimes against God as they see fit, while the likes of you and I concern ourselves only with, ahem, the more mundane kinds of trespassing."

By the end of the speech Berwald was seething inside, but he forced his voice to remain level. "With all due respect, Magistrate, the Church is meant for spiritual support and guidance, and not for exacting justice of any kind. Sharing such privileges with the priesthood will, in time, diminish your authority. Even more so now, when I've already taken the first steps to bring the law back into our hands, where it belongs. The prisoners we took in yesterday should be allowed a fair trial before any decision concerning their fate is to be made."

Roderich perched the glasses back on his nose, but his gaze studied Berwald over their frame. The thin, black wire hid the lower half of his eyes, making their expression impossible to discern.

"Sadly, under these circumstances you are right, Commander. The good Prior Tobias did come and ask for the prisoners to be restored to the Church, but I could not grant him the request because you and I are serving under the same laws and my words need to support your deeds if my Watch is to maintain any authority in this town. However, I promised him that the punishment will be dealt by Abbot Olav as he sees fit, should the prisoners be found guilty. Also, I had to vouch that you will have no word to say in this trial and all decisions will be mine to take, and I trust that you are wise enough not to force me to break my word."

Berwald nodded. "Fair enough. However, I must ask in my turn that the captives are not be surrendered to the Church for interrogation. My notion of fair trial does not involve the accused being tortured until they confess to anything to be rid of the pain, as the Church is wont to do."

Roderich regarded him coldly. "That was never my intention, Commander. Believe it or not, I do not revel in unnecessary human suffering. I've arranged for the trial to begin tomorrow after the Mass. Now if you will excuse me, I have important matters to consider and I am sure that due to the late hour of your arrival, you have yet to introduce yourself officially to your Watch."

Berwald stood up at all his imposing height and bowed his head slightly. "It has been a real pleasure to meet you, Magistrate Edelstein."

Roderich watched with a quizzical look as the door closed behind the other man. "A real pleasure indeed," he murmured.

 

* * *

 

Lukas sat cross-legged on the bed, pushing the heels of his hands against his eyes with punishing strength until his vision became filled with swirling dots of light. For the first time in his life, he was utterly, completely trapped, with no discernible means of escape. He had spent the night shivering with a cold he could not truly feel as his forehead pounded with nauseating pain and his mind crumbled under the weave of downfall and ruin. Sleep had come and gone, luring him in the snare of muddled nightmares. Each time when he had jolted awake to dim, flickering light and then, as the hour grew late, to the same unwavering darkness that shrouded his dreams, it had taken all his will to lie back on the blanket stained with the sweat of others and close his eyes once more, in vain hope for repose. Dawn had found him with a clouded mind and panic pulsing wildly in his chest, and he had dug with his bare hands at the stones and iron bars blocking the window until pain had brought him back from his haze. And now, fighting back the shame for his moment of insanity and paying no heed to his throbbing, bloodied fingers, he forced himself to think, to regain the coherence that kept fleeing just out of his grasp.

And yet it was the sound of the bolt sliding free that made the final lost pieces of his reason snap back into place, and his body tensed in apprehension. The open door revealed the unfamiliar figure of a guard carrying a plate and a cup of water, and Lukas almost allowed himself to breathe out in relief, when the newcomer stood aside to allow two more men in. Their faces were marked by bruises that Lukas recognized only too well.

"You are in our debt, little witch," the man with a black eye sneered. "We had to give a hefty sum to the healer for the damage you caused and we intend to make you pay for it," he paused to move his eyes up and down the younger man's body, "in any way you can."

"And besides, we've been thoughtful and brought you breakfast, the least you can do is show us some gratitude, don't you think?" the other man added and spat in the cup. His broken nose had been badly set and turned breathing into quite a painful affair, as Lukas observed with no small amount of satisfaction.

As the three guards came in one after the other and shut the door behind them, Lukas stood up, cautiously appraising his position. The first man lingered near the doorway, clearly wanting no part of the deed, but Lukas doubted he would hesitate to aid his fellows if he chose to fight them. The other two approached slowly, relishing in their power over him. Lukas inched along the wall with slow, careful movements, without taking his eyes off them. There was nothing he could use as weapon in the barren cell, nothing but the strength of sheer desperation that had helped him hurt them once before, and yet would never outmatch their brawn. Lukas clenched his fists at his side and steeled himself for what was to come.

The man with the black eye decided at last that he had waited long enough and moved ahead of his companion. Lukas tensed his muscles, ready to strike, but the other man was faster, rushing at him with unlikely speed and pinning him against the wall. The impact threw his head backwards into the slabs of stone and the shock echoed through his skull, causing the wound from the day before to flare in renewed agony. Lukas' world swam and turned black and his legs slumped under him long enough to allow the larger man to restrain his unresisting arms and press his wrists together high above his head.

When Lukas’ sight was freed from darkness, the guard’s dirty hand was fastened over his mouth, tilting his head up, and his bruised ribs burned under the weight of the other man’s body. The guard was watching him with an expression of uttermost disdain, his lips twisted in a sneer that revealed crooked, blackened teeth.

"I know of you, witch," he hissed as soon as Lukas’ eyes regained some focus. “I saw you walk around with your nose in the air like you’re better than everyone else, when you’re nothing but a rat from the slums. You belong in the gutters like any other whore and once we’re done with you, you won’t even dare to think otherwise. Now I’ll let you go and you’re going to behave, unless you want us to take our payment from the little brother you’ve guarded so well. Understood?"

Lukas did his best to nod under the hand that was crashing his head against the wall.

“Good.” The man’s hand descended from his mouth to his collarbone and ripped into his shirt. “Perform well and maybe we won’t need to come back for more.”

Lukas turned his head and surveyed the cell, trying not to think about the fingers that pawed at his skin. The guard by the door had been watching them intently, but looked away as soon as Lukas met his gaze. The man with the broken nose had thrown his sword carelessly on the makeshift bed and was now fumbling with the buckle of his belt. Lukas studied the sword with hope renewed. His wrists were still held in an iron grip, but the man had bowed his head to lick a wet trail across his shoulder and, without giving it a second thought, Lukas tilted his chin and sank his teeth hard into the other’s neck. Blood flooded his mouth and his tongue felt the sickening taste of raw meat but he only bit deeper, his ears ringing with curses until the other man forced him away.

Then the man with the broken nose was upon him and Lukas rammed his shoulder against his chest with all the strength he could muster. The man staggered under the unforeseen blow and Lukas smashed his fist into his face. Bone and cartilage snapped again under his fingers and the man wailed in pain, his hands grasping blindly at empty air.

Lukas slipped away easily under the other man’s outstretched arms and reached for the discarded sword, and then retreated to the farthest corner of the cell before the third guard could try and subdue him. The man with the broken nose had collapsed on the floor, clutching his face and his unharmed companion was moving to his aid, but his first assailant had clamped his palm on the dripping wound and seemed now ready to retaliate.

Lukas unsheathed the sword and pointed it before him, hoping that his hand would not tremble. "If you come any closer," he spoke with an even voice, "I will gut you like the pigs you are."

"You little piece of shit!" the man with the black eye cursed and drew his own sword. “So the witch wants to play a different game,” he taunted as he stepped forward. “Very well. I’ll mark your pretty face before we can carry on with what we’ve started.”

The guard lunged at him and Lukas parried clumsily, bending his wrist backwards under the blow. The man laughed and waved his blade, nudging the other sword without any real strength. Lukas gritted his teeth and fought the temptation to lash thoughtlessly at his opponent’s chest. He was being toyed with, there was no doubt about it, and had no real hope of winning unless he gambled on the other man’s overconfidence.

“Even weaker than I expected,” the guard complained. “Let’s end this faster and move on to better things.”

Lukas gripped the hilt tighter and prayed for a miracle. And, just as the blades crossed again, the door flew open and a strong arm pulled the guard away, throwing him to the ground. The man swore and looked up only to encounter the angry gaze of his commander.

"Out," Berwald ordered.

"But, sir..." the guard complained pointing at Lukas, who still held the blade aimed at him.

"Don't bring weapons in a prisoner's cell unless you intend to hold on to them, imbecile," Berwald growled. "Now get out."

Cowering under Berwald's glare, the guard lifted himself off the floor and left the cell. The other men followed, the man with the broken nose leaning heavily against his companion and leaving behind a thin trail of blood. Berwald examined his wound quizzically as he passed by him, then turned to his prisoner and cursed under his breath. Lukas was as pale as a wraith, even more so than the night before, and blood smeared the lower part of his face in ghastly contrast. Only his eyes seemed alive, burning with something akin to fever.

Berwald lifted his hands up in an appeasing gesture. Lukas watched him impassively but did not lower his sword and took one step, then another towards the open door.

"You are no swordsman,” Berwald warned with the steadiest tone he could muster. “You will never get past the front door.”

And, to his great surprise, Lukas halted by the door and nodded. "I know,” he said simply. Specks of blood still glistened on his teeth as if freshly drawn. “I demand to see my brother. You owe us at least that much."

"Such assaults will not happen again," said Berwald. “You have my word. You can remain with your brother until the trial, so hand me that sword."

Lukas narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “You made them agree to a trial?"

"Yes. It’s tomorrow."

Lukas drew a deep breath, and then threw the sword at Berwald’s feet, ignoring his outstretched hand. His eyes dared Berwald to lift the blade, but the other man only sighed and stepped over it, and then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and thrust it at his prisoner.

“Clean yourself before your brother sees you like this."

An odd look flashed through Lukas’ eyes as he accepted the piece of cloth from his hand. “I had forgotten about it,” he said. He wiped the cloth across his mouth and flecks of dried blood clung to the soft fabric. “It was not mine.”

The corners of Berwald's mouth twitched.

"I had figured as much," he said, and walked out the door and down the corridor without turning to see if Lukas followed. He lifted the iron latch and, as Lukas reached him, he pushed the door open. The silver-haired boy was standing uneasily in the middle of cell as if he had just jumped back and his eyes widened with relief when he caught sight of his brother. He had been listening in, without a doubt, and Berwald frowned and lingered on the doorstep for a few moments more, wondering how much the boy could have heard. His hesitation appeared to displease Lukas, who pushed past him to enter the cell and slammed the door shut without sparing him a second glance. Berwald shook his head half exasperated, half intrigued, then bolted back the door and went to retrieve the discarded sword.

As he paused in the middle of the cell, Lukas became aware for the first time of the dull throbbing at the back of his head and a spell of dizziness overtook him. He staggered to the bed and collapsed on it face up, with his eyes closed. As he fought a stubborn wave of nausea, he heard Emil's footsteps approach hesitantly.

"Lukas, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing, I'm just tired, is all," Lukas replied without opening his eyes.

A new weight pressed against the bed as Emil leant on his hands above Lukas' head. "You don't have to lie to me. I’m thirteen now, I'm not a child," the boy spoke reproachfully.

Lukas forced his eyes open to meet the two pools of purple from which all innocence of childhood had been banished by fear and anger, and a twinge of guilt shot through him.

"I was not lying, I am tired as well."

Emil frowned in annoyance, but climbed into bed next to Lukas and lifted his head on his lap, brushing a cool hand against his forehead. He opened his mouth to ask something else, then closed it back and bit his lip.

Lukas sighed, knowing very well what was weighing on his brother's mind. "Come on, say it."

"Are we going to get away alive?" the boy whispered.

Both brothers fell silent.

"We will try," Lukas finally answered, and Emil nodded and began to rub soothing circles in his brother's hair. Lukas closed his heavy eyelids and the shade of a smile passed over his lips as he recognized the same patterns his fingertips used to draw in the silvery locks years before, when Emil would wake up from bad dreams with tears flowing down his cheeks.


	3. Mist

_This night, like countless times before, Lukas allows slumber to seal his tired eyes while his mind still lingers half aware, his brother's reassuring weight pressed against his right arm, the child's soft, even breath marking a soothing rhythm at the edge of his hearing. The house is empty and covered in a comforting kind of darkness filled with familiar shapes and sensations - the pungent smell of herbs laid out to dry, the outline of the bookcase standing barely visible in the dying firelight, the branches of the tree which he would climb to read or simply to daydream for hours on end snapping against the window pane in a gust of wind. A door creaks open, and Lukas drifts to sleep, safe in the knowledge that his parents are finally home._

_When he awakens at the pressure of a hand on his shoulder, he knows from the heaviness creeping along his limbs and the haze slowing his thoughts that he could not have been asleep for very long, minutes perhaps, and he has to blink several times before he can make out the shape of his father's face from the surrounding shadows. Lukas tries to speak, but his father shakes his head and presses his fingers against the boy's mouth with an uncharacteristic urgency that silences Lukas even more than the restraining hand. He pulls his arm carefully from underneath his brother's sleeping body and stands up on unsteady legs, fear clutching his mind with ice-cold claws. "Get dressed," his father hisses and Lukas moves instinctively to the pile of discarded clothes from the day before, putting them on one by one with stiff hands, and watching as the older man locates Emil's warm winter coat and wraps it around the sleeping child. Emil whimpers but does not stir, and his father stands still next to him until the child's breathing evens, then he steps soundlessly out of the room, motioning for Lukas to follow. The corridor is cold and Lukas cannot suppress a shiver as he takes in his father's tense features. The older man's cloak lies discarded on the wooden floor, and he picks it up and fastens it around his son's neck, then takes hold of his shoulders and grips them firmly._

_"You need to take your brother and run," he whispers in a tone that does not allow for resistance. "Your mother and I, we've been careless. There was a woman we could not save, the corruption was too advanced, and we were seen going out of her house. Now," he sneers and Lukas cringes at the sight, "we are being blamed for her death and for bringing the plague upon the town. There is an angry mob heading our way so you have no more time to lose."_

_Lukas' mind feels too numb to protest when a leather satchel is shoved in his hands and his fingers discover through the fabric the outline of a book he knows only too well. As his father pushes him back in the room he bites hard at his lower lip and asks, although he already knows the answer. "Where is Mother?"_

_The man shakes his head grimly and lifts the sleeping child, and pauses to place a kiss on top of the unruly silver hair before relinquishing him to Lukas' arms. "Run as far as you can and do not stop to fight back if you are followed. I will try to buy you time. Remember everything we taught you and protect your brother. I...” his eyes grow soft and he cups his elder son's face with his hand, "your mother and I love you both so much, and we wanted to spare you for as long as possible from our burden. I am sorry that you have to carry it so young."_

_Lukas wants to scream at his father that he does not need to stay behind, that they can escape together, but the clamor of an approaching crowd reaches them and the older man’s mouth constricts in a thin line of resolve. "The window, quickly," his father presses, and Lukas tightens the hold on his brother as he pushes the window open and climbs outside, dropping with ease to the frozen ground. His heart beats too fast and he allows himself to slip to his knees, taking in deep, calming breaths, his torso bent protectively above Emil’s sleeping form. Inside, a door slams open and as heavy footsteps march in, his father's mocking voice drifts out, "Good evening to you, Mayor, and to you, your Holiness. I'm humbled that you came in person."_

_Lukas forces himself to move and crawls on all fours until he is safely away from the window, then jumps to his feet and darts through the back gate like a shadow, grateful beyond belief that only a fence and a thin strip of land separate him from the edge of the forest. A wide dirt trail cuts through the trees and Lukas follows it for a while, running more easily without stumbling against roots and stones, but when his lungs start to burn and his arms grow too weary under the weight of the child he staggers as far away from the path as he dares, wary of getting lost in the thickening forest with nothing but the light of a waning moon as guidance. He finally collapses on the upgrown roots of a gnarled tree, and Emil stretches and yawns on his lap, his eyelashes fluttering open, but Lukas hushes him and the child settles back to sleep._

_He feels barely rested when his reason pushes him to move on, but as he tries to get up the clatter of hooves coming more and more near paralyzes him, and he curses under his breath when the horses stop not too far away from his hiding place ._

_"Hold the reins, will you? I have to piss," a rough voice sounds, and Lukas listens with growing dread as the man dismounts heavily, makes his way between the trees and relieves himself with a satisfied groan._

_"Since we stopped, we might as well take a look around, though God knows that the witch spawn could be anywhere by know," another voice suggests and grunts of approval meet it._

_More men dismount and approach the tree line and Lukas can count at least five flickering torches spreading in a half circle. He knows that it's too late to run and they can only have a meager chance of escape if the men do not venture too close, but they will surely be discovered from afar should light fall on their fair skin and hair. So Lukas pulls his hood up and clutches Emil to his chest underneath the cloak, wishing desperately that his brother would not awaken, and that the shadows or the bark of the tree could swallow them. And when the voices approach and their pursuers stop only steps away and yet fail to see them, Lukas is bewildered but does not dare to lift his head or even to breathe, although the men's words make him seethe._

_"The little demons hide well," a voice grumbles, as its owner's boot hits the dead leaves in annoyance._

_"And if we find them, what then?" another asks._

_"We show them our mercy and send them to rejoin their parents in hell, what else," the rough voice chuckles._

_"And who would take it upon himself to kill children?" the other voice falters._

_The first man spits on the ground, and his voice is bitter. "The older one has seen at least fifteen winters, I'd have him dance at the end of a rope next to his witch mother without any remorse. As for the child... I've lost three sons to the black death, one of them just a babe in swaddles, and I will say nothing more."_

_The men move away in silence, but Lukas remains still until he hears them reclaim their horses and ride on, and as the sounds die down Emil begins to struggle in his arms. "Lu.. .choke..." the child whines and Lukas releases his suffocating hold on his brother, placing him on his feet on the forest floor. The child patters on the fallen leaves around him, apparently unfazed by the strange surroundings, and all of a sudden he rushes back into Lukas' arms, pressing both his palms against his brother's face._

_"Lu, why sad?" he asks, his purple eyes shining eerily as he gazes up at his brother, and Lukas covers the child's small hands with his own, only to discover the wet traces of tears he does not remember having shed. "Where are Mama and Papa?" Emil looks at him questioningly, and Lukas draws his fingers through his brother's tangled locks, his throat suddenly dry._

_"Emil," he whispers, "there's just the two of us from now on."_

_The town unfolds like a ghastly carnival of stenches, debris and refuse as Lukas walks along a deserted street in the grey light of the early dawn. The darkness of the night has begun to fade away from the clear sky but on the ground shadows still linger, molding here and there around prone figures which Lukas refuses to acknowledge, just as he keeps himself from turning his head to see once again the dark column of smoke rising in the distance, near the edge of the forest where his home used to stand. When the muffled sound of his steps is met with a pained moan, Lukas withdraws behind the cover of a protruding wall, his gaze darting from one dark corner to another, yet nothing moves but the large rodents circling around a fallen shape in the gutter. Lukas swallows against the bile rising in his throat and when a rat scurries towards him, rising on its haunches to sniff at his boot, he kicks it hard, hurling the squealing animal against the flagstones._

_Emil tightens his grip under the shelter of the cloak and Lukas whispers reassuringly to his brother as he resumes his pace, his eyes alert for danger. Yet no living soul stirs behind the barricaded windows, the town still cowering under the threat of the deaths the new morning may reveal, and it’s too early for the undertakers to come out and collect the night’s tribute. Still, Lukas curses again the urge he was not strong enough to resist, and which sent him wandering the streets of the plague-ridden town in search of a closure he might never attain. He knows he will soon be forced to abandon his search so when he finally stumbles upon the body of the woman, gently swaying from the makeshift gibbet, he can only feel relief._

_“Emil,” he murmurs, hunting with his free hand for the sheathed dagger he had been so relieved to discover in his satchel, “I will let go now. Hold on to me and remember you promised not to peek.”_

_The child wraps his legs tighter around his brother’s waist and scrunches his eyes shut, and Lukas relinquishes his hold just long enough to reach up and cut the rope, one arm keeping the slight body from falling. As soon as the dagger has cut through he lets it drop and grasps Emil, concealing him again inside his cloak, and his arms cradle both his precious burdens, the living and the dead, as he lowers his mother’s body to the ground. His eyes are dry and his face frozen in an impenetrable mask as he works loose the knot around her swollen neck and brushes her hair away from her brow. Underneath the light strands her empty eyes are as purple and round as Emil’s and Lukas presses the eyelids close with a shudder._

_“Farewell, Mother,” he whispers, his voice so low he can barely discern it himself. “I will do everything in my power to keep Emil safe, I swear it.”_

_He stands up and turns away and, as his steps carry him farther, emptiness shrouds his features like an immutable veil._

 

* * *

 

Two sleepless nights in a row, Matthias mused, were a small price to pay for the rare occasion of watching Elizaveta’s expression change from belligerent determination to disbelieving perplexity when the young woman threw the door open with the obvious intent of making as much noise as possible, only to find her companion already awake and buttoning his long, black coat at an hour which Matthias himself had claimed loudly and repeatedly to be too early to possibly exist. As she opened and closed her mouth, swallowing whatever speech she had intended to deliver, Matthias offered her a wide grin.

“Now, Lizzie, you know that you don’t have to try so hard to catch me naked, all you need to do is ask,” he teased.

Elizaveta narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “That joke is getting too old for its own good, Matthias. Where do you think you’re going?”

Matthias shrugged, combing his fingers through his hair in the mirror but only managing to make it stick at even stranger angles. “Out.”

The young woman threw him a warning look and strode resolutely to the bed where Gilbert was still snoring obliviously, fully buried under the blankets. Matthias’ lips curled upwards in a knowing grin as he drew a chair and made himself comfortable for the upcoming show. Elizaveta caught hold of the albino’s blanket and yanked it so hard that he rolled over the edge, his head clashing against the nightstand on his way down. Gilbert’s crimson eyes snapped open instantly, flashing in murderous intent, but the sight of Elizaveta’s triumphant smirk made him sink back on the carpet.

“What the hell, woman,” he grumbled, clutching at the newly acquired bump on his head.

“Get dressed, we’re going to church,” Elizaveta announced drily, taking a step back to glare at both men.

Two identical groans echoed from opposite sides of the room.

“Why on earth should we do that?” Matthias protested, wishing he had made his escape while Elizaveta had still been busy tormenting his friend.

“Because,” Elizaveta retorted, bending to pick up the messy pile of clothes lying on the floor next to Gilbert’s bed and reinforcing every other word with an accurate toss at the albino’s head, “we happen to find ourselves among God-fearing people upon whose goodwill and generosity we depend, so when the entire town goes to Mass we follow and say our prayers like the good little Christians that we are. Any more questions?” Both men shook their heads. “I didn’t think so. I’m waiting for you outside so don’t even consider running away or loitering around until the service ends.”

With Elizaveta gone and the door safely closed, Gilbert picked himself up from the floor and fished for his pants from beneath the discarded clothing.

“I’ll return the favor if you distract the she-dragon WHOM WE ALL RESPECT AND LOVE,” he hollered when an angry tap on the door followed the ungentlemanly epithet, then continued in a lower voice, “while I find myself a hole to hide in for the rest of the morning.”

“Don’t even think about it, mate, that’s one lady I don’t want to mess with right now,” Matthias laughed, “and besides, you know you never keep your promises. Why don’t you try the window, you should be close enough to the ground to escape with only minor injuries.”

Gilbert flipped him off, then went to open the window and leaned out just in time to see Arthur exchange a polite greeting with an officer of the Watch, who disappeared afterwards inside the inn, and then resume his pacing up and down the street with an unusually quiet Peter following him like a lost puppy.

“It’s no use, she’s set a watch dog down there as well,” he grumbled in Matthias’ direction, then threw another suspicious look outside. “I must have hit my head worse than I thought; it’s the first time I see that brat actually behaving around Arthur.”

On the other side of the door, Elizaveta smiled at Tino as the boy passed by her looking uncomfortable in his stiff Sunday clothes. Tino waved back shyly, and then moved on to knock on a door at the end of the corridor; when the response delayed to come, he stretched and stifled a yawn, then promptly blushed a deep shade of red as the door flew open mid-gesture to make way for Berwald to stare at him from behind his glasses.

“I, I, brought you what you asked me for yesterday,” he stammered, handing the other man a neatly wrapped package. “And there’s a guard downstairs waiting to speak with you. And good morning.” He drew a deep breath and attempted half a grin.

Berwald nodded in thanks while hiding a smile of his own. The evening before, the violet-eyed boy’s chatter had proven to be quite a welcome respite after a day jarring in so many ways and he had found himself awaiting their next encounter with an eagerness he still found difficult to justify. Yet, as he walked down the flight of stairs in search of his visitor his frown returned, together with the suspicion that the early call would only reveal more trouble from his volatile prisoner; and, when he caught sight of the tense figure of a man he recognized as one of his lieutenants, his suspicion turned into certitude.

The man approached him and saluted. “Good morning, Commander. My apologies for disturbing you at such an early hour, but some monks arrived at the Watch House claiming that Abbot Olav obtained permission from the Magistrate to have the prisoners attend the Mass, and you ordered yesterday that nobody is to enter their cell except in your presence.”

“Thank you. You did well to seek me out,” Berwald replied with a nod of approval and headed for the door closely followed by the other man, without noticing that Tino had listened in on everything that was said, nor the worried look the boy had thrown after him.

 

* * *

 

 

Berwald‘s less than pleased gaze ran for a second time over the slip of paper that the eldest of the trio of monks had handed him. It appeared genuine, and in all honesty he did not believe that they would go as far as to fabricate a document that could be so easily disproved, and yet he could not dismiss a strong feeling of apprehension. The monks, none of them bearing a familiar face, were watching him patiently.

“Time is running late, Commander,” the eldest monk finally broke the silence, “and the service is about to begin. Surely you would not deny those unfortunate souls one last opportunity to repent in front of God.”

Berwald could think of no reason to refuse their request and his frown deepened. “Fine,” he conceded. “Wait here, I will bring them.”

The few watchmen present were already alert and waiting for his orders, but Berwald gestured for them to wait before pushing open the heavy door leading to the prison. In the small room preceding the flight of descending stairs, two guards were seated at a wooden table, playing cards under the torchlight; upon Berwald’s entrance, they abandoned their game and rose respectfully.

“Anything to report?” Berwald asked.

“Nothing, sir,” one of the men shrugged. “They’ve been as quiet as mice down there, we did not hear a sound all night long, nor,” he added hurriedly, remembering his orders, “did anyone attempt to pass by us.”

Berwald reached out for a torch. “We will have to move the prisoners. Arrange for an escort, and then you are dismissed for the day.”

The guards nodded and disappeared through the open door, while Berwald opened the trap door and made his way once more down the stairs and through the narrow corridor. The underground prison had been built half as wide as the house above it, with no windows breaching its walls on the left side, and as Berwald stepped into the occupied cell his lungs constricted in protest at the stale air that met him. His eyes met Lukas’, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, squinting in the sudden outburst of light. The silver-haired boy was still fast asleep at his side, his face hidden by his long locks and one hand grasping tightly at his brother’s.

“Is it time?” Lukas asked softly, and Berwald nodded.

“Almost. You were requested to attend the Mass, the trial will start afterwards.”

Lukas sighed and bent to whisper in his brother’s ear, his words indistinct, his fingers brushing rebel strands of hair from the boy’s eyes, and Berwald looked away, feeling awkward all of a sudden, like an intruder upon something treasured. His gaze fell on the remains of the previous day’s meal. The tray lay on the floor still half untouched, and Berwald shook his head in disapproval.

“We are ready,” Lukas’ voice announced, and Berwald turned to face his prisoners. Wordlessly, he handed the other man the packet he had been carrying with him, and when Lukas raised an inquiring eyebrow, Berwald pointed at his torn and bloodied shirt.

“It wouldn’t be right to force you to go out in the cold wearing only that.”

A fleeting look of disbelief passed over Lukas’ eyes, followed by one of outraged recognition when the unfolded cloth revealed a clean shirt and a coat knitted from soft grey wool, with a delicate snowflake pattern at the cuffs.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” he hissed, his knuckles white as he clutched at the garments, “but do not dare involve Tino in this God damned mess.”

Only the silent surprise at the revelation that sweet, innocent Tino might be acquainted with the two brothers so closely as to bring out such an outburst from the elder kept Berwald from reprimanding the prisoner whose insolence was beginning to wear his patience thin.

“It’s just a coat,” he answered coldly. “I suggest you wear it if you don’t want to freeze to death in addition to starving yourself.”

Lukas held his gaze challengingly, but feeling his brother’s pleading touch on his shoulder he pressed his lips in a thin line and turned his back, tossing the clothes on the bed and starting to undo his buttons. Noise came from the corridor and Berwald stepped out to meet the approaching guard, who held out a pair of handcuffs connected by a short chain.

“We are waiting for you at the entrance, sir,” he said. “Should we use these?”

Berwald pondered. He would not even consider putting the boy in chains, but he had learned to be mistrustful of the elder brother’s deceptively impassive façade. “Just for the man,” he decided and the guard nodded and entered the cell to fasten the shackles around Lukas’ wrists, who paled at the new humiliation.

Four armed watchmen were standing at the gates together with the small group of monks. When the prisoners emerged, the elder monk raised his hand in blessing and began to utter a prayer, but the sight of Lukas’ withering glare made the words die on his lips.

In spite of his growing annoyance with the prisoner who was seemingly intent on doing his best to aggravate his situation, Berwald chuckled inwardly.

The church was a towering masterpiece of dark stone and stained glass large enough to fit most of the town’s population, its ivy-covered walls and massive arches standing tall in the midst of the monastery grounds. By the time the small convoy reached the gates, the last row of townsmen had trickled in and only the black figure of Prior Tobias was waiting by the carved church doors.

“Commander, I almost believed you would not make it,” he greeted Berwald with a saccharine smile as he waved them in.

Berwald decided to ignore the monk’s unwarranted friendliness. “We would have certainly arrived sooner if the necessity of bringing the prisoners to attend the Mass had been made known to me yesterday. Will I have the honor of finally meeting Abbot Olav as we have much to discuss?”

The monk’s features recomposed themselves in a look of regret. “Alas, his Holiness is already conducting the private service for our congregation,” he said, pointing to a considerably smaller church barely visible behind a cluster of trees, “and afterwards he will be undergoing the Sunday meditation. But please, let us tarry no longer.”

Berwald swallowed an angry retort and followed the monk through the open doors, watching the prisoners advance through the two rows of benches as he himself was guided to a front pew occupied only by the Magistrate, who greeted him with a silent handshake.

Walking up the long aisle with uncountable pairs of eyes turning to watch his every movement as he passed by was proving to be a more excruciating experience than Lukas had first imagined. His steps resounded on the stone floor, echoed by his brother’s behind him, only adding to the uncomfortable feeling of being exposed which he tried to shake off by keeping his head straight and his face devoid of emotion, as his gaze trained on empty space. His eyes darkened in displeasure when a monk’s firm hand lead him to the right and forced him to kneel at the bottom of the steps to the altar, separating him from Emil who was being guided through the same moves in the opposite direction. He felt almost grateful when the church bell tolled to signal the beginning of the service, making the assembly shift their attention to the succession of prayers, and soon even the monotonous drone of their voices was overwhelmed by the chaos of his thoughts.

He had been lost in his own world for quite a while when a flutter of black robes on the corner of his vision made him flinch and turn his gaze up. Standing on the first step, a monk was using a pair of pincers to hold a burning ember and let it drop on the waiting surface of an incense burner. Lukas sighed when the stifling smell reached him and tried to dismiss it as one more nuisance he would have to endure, but instead his eyes widened and a chill settled down his spine when the smoke seeping from the lit incense refused to dissipate, gathering instead in a thick, swaying strand that descended to coil around him like a snake. The steady flow of words around him dissolved into incoherent sounds, sometimes whispers sometimes screams as his eyelids dropped and he felt his body sink forward. The ugly clatter of chain on stone sobered him somehow and when his mind and vision cleared, he found himself still kneeling, half reclined with his hands pressed against the floor. The silence that enclosed him felt even more overbearing than the earlier din and as he lifted his head to take in his surroundings, he became aware that the prayers had stopped and all eyes were on him, watching hungrily. Lukas’ fingers clutched around the chain to stop it from rattling as he fought to sit upright and, when his back finally straightened, the gaze of the monk behind the altar met his for a moment, full of triumph, daring him to do something reckless. The prayers resumed and Lukas forced himself to remain still, but his head rolled backwards and his eyes fell on the stained glass angel mounted high up on the northern wall. As he watched, the colors ebbed and swirled, and the angel’s wings unfolded in a whirlwind of shining white feathers.

 

* * *

 

By the age of twelve, Matthias had given up on praying. He did not stop believing though, that had come years later, but rather the kind, loving God and protective angels from his mother's stories had been replaced in his childish mind by an altogether different kind of divinity, one who reveled in twisting the mortals' most desperate prayers to grant the absolute opposite of their wishes and who laughed at their misery simply out of spite. He had prayed for the black death to spare his family, and yet he had to watch powerlessly as dark stains covered their skin and their flesh rotted away. When all hope was lost he had prayed for a quick, painless death, but one by one they had withered slowly away, choking on their own blood after fevered days of endless agony. And at the very end, after the thin layer of earth of the common grave had closed over the lifeless body of his eldest sister, and he had nothing left to return to but a deserted house and grim memories, he had prayed harder than ever before for the sickness to take him too. He was spared.

He had survived on whatever scraps he could forage when the pangs of hunger became too hard to endure, too weak-willed to allow starvation to run its course and yet hating himself for every life-saving morsel, until the contagion died down and the few surviving monks rounded up all the orphaned children. For most of them, it meant salvation; for Matthias, it was a prison of the cruelest kind. With their hair shaven off and their scrawny bodies dressed in roughly spun yarn, perfect little monks behind latched gates, their days went by in a monotonous succession of chores and prayers. And, while his companions' eyes slowly dulled in resignation or began to shine in religious rapture, Matthias rebelled. He fought, he cursed, he blasphemed and neither beatings, nor threats, nor the cold, grey confines of the church walls could make him cower. When the cane hit his naked back, he would laugh; when the priest menaced him with the torments of Hell, he would smirk and spit in his face, for the eternal fires held no meaning when his soul was already burning in anger and resentment.

Many months had to go by until he learned to pretend that he did not care, and years until his anger was quenched to embers, smoldering yet subdued. Only his laughter remained, often mocking, sometimes sincere, his weapon and armor, his mask, his most constant companion. And now, as his steps carried him unwillingly into the crowded church for the first time in a long while, his lips failed to quirk in the dismissive smile meant to hide an unwanted shudder. The stone walls loomed over him like an elaborate tomb, and stern-faced saints glared down from their towering perches, the dull light of the clouded morning piercing gloomily through their glass eyes, chastening everyone who met their gazes into sullen submission.

Everyone, apart from Gilbert.

The albino sprawled on a wooden bench, safely afar from the yet deserted altar, and his eyes darted mockingly up and down the walls, and then skimmed over the assembled congregation, his mouth curling in a knowing grin, until he caught sight of the bespectacled nobleman sitting obliviously in the front row. His eyes rounded in surprise and, turning to Matthias, he gestured frantically for his friend to join him. Matthias shrugged and sat down next to him, wondering idly what new mischief had crossed his troublesome companion's mind.

"See that prig over at the front?" Gilbert hissed in his ear, struggling in a hopeless fight against a crippling burst of laughter.

Matthias craned his neck until he spotted the man who, judging by the overly prim way in which he was wiping his glasses with a seemingly silk handkerchief, was the only one who could match his friend's rather vague description.

"I believe so," he admitted.

"That, my friend," Gilbert announced triumphantly, "is none other than my stuck-up cousin Roddy. I'd recognize that sour face anywhere. Father forced me once to spend an entire summer at that bastard's family mansion hoping that his oh-so-proper manners might rub off on me."

"And his plan failed, I assume," Matthias smirked in his companion's direction.

Gilbert remained unfazed. "Laugh all you want, but know that in that chair sits the answer to our unsolved mystery about who would be so pretentious as to use a carriage in a town where most streets can barely fit a cart."

Matthias snorted. Earlier that morning, their small group had been trudging down the street, or more precisely both he and Gilbert were dragging their feet as slowly as they dared in the vain hope that they might find the church gates bolted shut against latecomers, while Arthur and Elizaveta glared daggers from the sides and Feliks sauntered ahead, unperturbed by his companions' moodiness, when the unexpected sound of large wheels hitting against cobblestones had literally flattened them against the walls to make room for a carriage altogether too wide to ensure the safety of any pedestrian who might have the misfortune to happen by.

A shadow fell over them and both men looked up to meet Elizaveta's unforgiving green glare.

"Move," she ordered, and when Matthias dragged himself to the end of the bench, she stepped around his legs and took the seat left free between them, sitting down with her arms crossed.

"But Liz," Gilbert pouted, "I've just found a long-lost relative of mine!"

"Sit straight and for the love of God, stop talking, Gil," Elizaveta hissed through clenched teeth, wary of the curious looks they were receiving from the townspeople nearby. "This is neither the time nor the place for your stories and frankly, hearing how you ran away from home after your father disowned you began to lose its appeal after the twenty-fifth time or so."

"That's mean even for you, Liz," Gilbert whined in false grief, but making a half-hearted attempt at straightening up from his slouch. "That's an epic tale worthy of one of Arthur's plays."

"As if," Arthur scoffed from the seat behind the trio. "And if you three can bear to live without listening to your own voices for at least a minute, you might want to see this."

Matthias turned his head towards the door and his breath hitched when the uncanny feeling he'd been struggling to suppress, part pity, part outrage and part longing, came back tenfold. He did not know himself why he had allowed a cold and strange man, with whom he had exchanged not even a single glance, let alone words, to haunt his thoughts so. And yet, as he watched the prisoner pass by, so close that he could barely refrain himself from reaching out to stop him and force those fathomless eyes to meet his own, Matthias' brow creased with concern. Surely, the narrow shoulders were still set in a posture of dignity, and the proud features were still frozen in the unyielding mask that had kept Matthias so intrigued, but the first signs of decay were already plain for him to see in the dark shades under the prisoner's eyes and the rigid line of his mouth, and Matthias found helplessness overwhelm him as he wondered how much more the other man could endure before letting his spirit be crushed.

 

* * *

 

 

Lukas had felt the persistent pull against his chain from the beginning, but his body refused to obey and unfold from the rigid posture he had only managed to keep through desperate will. Unknown forces had been playing his senses like the overly taut strings of a violin, and the only barrier that protected his mind from shattering in a million pieces as it struggled to keep up with the assault was the growing apprehension of letting anyone else understand what he was going through. It had been a strangely disjointed sensation, the fight to prevent his body from keeling over on the stone steps while the outside world crumbled around him in an avalanche of sounds and colors and his lungs became suffused with a cloying, heavy scent. He had never conceived blindness as anything else than an absence of light, a black and yet neutral void, so nothing had prepared him for the pulsing vortex of colors that his surroundings were melting into, shrouding his vision as surely as the deepest darkness. The hues shone painfully sharp, twisting and turning sickeningly even behind closed eyelids, so when a mass of black suddenly slid in front of his eyes, covering everything else from sight, Lukas embraced gladly the reassuring shadows. And yet, too soon for his liking, the black shield was somehow pushed away, and a whimper escaped his lips before he understood that the world was now twisting back into solid contours and his tormented eyes distinguished a familiar blue uniform amidst the retreating chaos.

"What's wrong with you?"

The sound of Berwald's deep voice made Lukas jump in surprise, for the relief of being freed from his blinding nightmare had kept him from realizing that the constant humming in his ears had also died down, and the not so subtle attempt at forcing him to stand up had ceased.

"There was... something in the incense... suffocating..." Lukas let his voice trail off, not sure himself of what he was trying to explain, nor of how much it was safe to reveal.

Berwald glanced briefly at the incense burner, now extinguished, and nodded. "Can you stand up and walk?" he asked.

"I have to," Lukas sighed, and swallowing his pride he took Berwald's outstretched hand and willed his numb body to move. His legs were shaking and his head began to swim again from the exertion, but he pulled himself upright and took a few faltering steps past the disgruntled, black-robed monk who must have been the unaware cause of his temporary relief. As his steps became surer he let go of Berwald's supporting arm, but Berwald placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him further through the retreating assembly and into the courtyard. Lukas felt grateful in spite of himself, for now that the service was over the courtyard teemed with townsfolk, all too eager to catch another glimpse of his face, and yet too intimidated by the imposing man next to him to come any closer. Somewhere in the crowd he caught sight of Tino, who was watching him with worried eyes from the side of his overbearing father. When their gazes met the boy began to mouth something, but Lukas jerked his head away before he could decipher the soundless words. Better hurt the boy, better estrange him than allow him to do something reckless and endanger himself for the sake of a doomed friendship.

The iron shackles weighed heavily around Lukas' wrists, sliding down his slender hands, not quite wide enough to slip off but tantalizingly close, and the back of his eyes still pulsed with the last remnants of pain, yet the morning felt strangely serene, a surreal distortion of the flood of raging faces and tearing grips that had harrowed his dreams for the better part of the past nine years, jolting him awake in a pool of his own sweat as he reached out frantically for the child sleeping at his side. His anger had fled into hiding, burnt away while the arcane assault was holding him powerless on the altar steps, leaving nothing but cold reasoning in its stead. In another time and place he would have laughed out bitterly at his own blindness, at the fear of human ignorance and cruelty twisted so deeply within the confines of his mind that it had made him oblivious to any and all other threats. Whatever creature was hunting them had woven its net unhindered thrice over, and even from afar it held them thoroughly in its clutches, for how could they even hope to fight back from behind stone walls and locked doors, amidst all those eyes watching, waiting for the one false step that might betray their true nature?

Even his hate for those men who held them captive had weakened now that he saw them for what they really were, deluded pawns who believed themselves safe while watching others suffer, unaware that something far more dangerous lurked in the shadows, luring them into its schemes like puppets on a string. He allowed his gaze to wander once more over their faces, in an idle search for a sign that someone might hide more than it seemed, and his eyes fell on eyes blue like the ice under a clear sky that hid no trace of malice or fear. And, as their gazes locked, the other man's mouth moved to shape something so unexpected that for a fleeting moment Lukas let his carefully constructed mask crumble in disbelief - a warm, comforting smile. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Confess your crimes and your punishment will be lenient."

Lukas narrowed his eyes as he studied Roderich's seemingly neutral countenance that allowed only the barest trace of interest to escape from the bespectacled gaze.

"You are surely taking me for a fool, Magistrate," he replied coldly, paying no heed to the faint groan that escaped Berwald's lips. "You know as well as I do that the only lenience we can expect for crimes such as those we’re blamed for is a less painful death, and I do not intend to squander my life, let alone my brother's, on false accusations."

For a long moment, the only noise filling the small room was the muted drone of voices drifting in from the adjoining hall.

"So be it," Roderich finally broke the uneasy silence, "but know that only the high regard I have for Commander Oxenstierna, whose sense of justice extends even to the vilest of lawbreakers, keeps me from allowing the Church alone to decide your fate, so you'd better learn to show respect for your betters, and learn it fast. You two," he turned to the guards who lingered by the door pretending not to have heard the affront, "are to bring the prisoners in when I call for them, and Commander," he added in a less haughty voice, "please remember that you agreed not to interfere and wait here until the trial is over."

Lukas watched blankly as the Magistrate turned on his heel and strode out leaving the door ajar, and held his arms out for Emil, who had been standing quietly next to the tall Commander, his fear-clouded eyes the only specks of color on his wan face. The boy rushed into the open arms and Lukas held his brother as tightly as his chains allowed him, while all sounds died down to make room for Roderich's voice.

"Friends and fellow townsmen," he began, "I've been called upon to conduct the trial of the foreigner we know as Lukas and his brother Emil, who stand accused of witchcraft and devil worship, and of using their unholy arts to lure the innocent citizens of our town into the clutches of Satan. But, although these are crimes of the most heinous nature, I believe that justice should be always upheld in our small community, therefore the accused will be allowed to try and redeem themselves. However, should they be proven guilty, they will be surrendered to the Church for whatever punishment is deemed suitable to save their immortal souls.

"The good Prior Tobias is here on behalf of Abbot Olav to bring proof of their guilt, but before he begins, let the prisoners come forward."

In the next room, Lukas let go of his brother before rough hands could pry him forcefully away, only to cringe when a guard took hold of his arm in an unnecessarily tight grasp and pushed him towards the door.

"Wait," Berwald's voice sounded unexpectedly, and Lukas turned his head to look at him over his shoulder. "Be very careful of what you say and do, your lives lie in the Magistrate's hands now and you have already angered him."

Lukas exhaled sharply. "Believe me, I am aware of our situation, more than you could ever imagine."

Another push brought him over the threshold and he found himself standing on the edge of a wooden dais, wide enough to support a heavy, polished table surrounded by several chairs on one side, out of which only two were occupied by the Magistrate and the short monk with a cunning face who had officiated the earlier service, both deep in quiet conversation. He had steeled himself to endure the indignity of a public trial, yet the sheer number of people crowded together in a hall that had clearly not been built for such a large audience made him stop in his tracks. Townsfolk were filling every inch of the narrow benches and the less lucky ones who had arrived too late to find a seat stood in closely packed groups next to the entrance and along the walls, all of them sharing the same look of barely suppressed curiosity tinged with a hint of apprehension.

At the Magistrate's sign, the guards guided the two brothers to stand on either side of the platform, and Lukas sighed inwardly at everyone's insistence to keep them separated, as if once left together they might share something more sinister than just a small degree of consolation. The monk nodded once as Roderich settled back in his chair with his arms crossed, then got up and placed himself in the middle, half facing the audience and half the Magistrate, but with his eyes trained on Lukas' face. He coughed several times and then spoke.

"As fellow Christians, we all know that the Devil likes to hide in the most unlikely of places, behind the masks of goodness and virtue, of youth and beauty, for if he revealed himself in all his foulness we would without doubt fear and shun him. An ordinary man can thus fall pray easily to the Devil's tricks, and it is upon us, the men of the cloth, that the duty falls to uproot the enemies of God from their most hidden lairs and bring them forth for judgment."

The monk turned fully to his audience, taking in the entranced faces.

"Look at those two!" he cried out, his arms rising to point at the prisoners standing at his either side. "Both endowed with the innocence of youth, one of them but a child, yet both corrupted to the very core of their being. They are witches, Satan's beloved, and though you may not see it I am here to make you understand, and rest assured that my brethren and I were not hasty in our judgment, oh no, we pondered each sign carefully before denouncing them.

"This man earns his bread by preying on his neighbours' misfortune and selling them his accursed herbs and potions, all in the name of healing and compassion..."

"He cured my cough, he did," a voice cut in, "and made me an ointment when my youngest got himself a nasty burn."

The monk pinned the perpetrator with a glacial stare. "And if I told you that those medicines were tainted by the Devil to increase their worth tenfold, and those who take benefit from the Devil's work, even unbeknownst, are doomed to burn forever in the fires of hell?"

As the audience gasped in dismay, Lukas stared at the monk in disbelief. "For the love of..." he muttered under his breath.

It only took two quick steps for the Prior to be at his side. "Did you say anything, young man?" he asked dangerously.

Lukas drew in a deep, calming breath. "I grow and mix herbs. In the right amounts they help an injured body heal faster. That's all there is, nothing more, nothing less."

"This is not what our healer seems to believe. He assured us repeatedly that your so-called medicines are too unnaturally powerful for something created by human hands."

"And you would take the word of a decrepit old man for it, one who thinks that bleeding his patients dry is the best way of drawing out their sickness?" Lukas snapped back.

"I would take the word of a respected member of our community who saved numerous men, women and children from their death bed during the past few years over that of two strangers who turned up in our town from only God knows where," the monk replied with a meaningful look, leaving Lukas nothing else to do than bite his lip and seethe in silence.

"And even then," the Prior went on as he stepped back to his place, "we bid our time and observed, for we did not want to lay such a heavy blame on the shoulders of innocent beings. And we saw how every Sunday they would come to Mass and yet keep themselves apart, away from the altar and the holy relics, and our suspicion grew. Today we had them kneel at the altar, in the presence of God, and I believe there is no soul here in this room who did not see how this man writhed and bowed and suffered under the might of our prayers."

The assembly began to murmur in acknowledgment, their eyes growing hard as they stared at the captives with newly found unease, but Roderich coughed and bent forward in his chair.

"Perhaps we should allow the young man to explain himself, Prior Tobias," he said, and Lukas began to think very fast while the monk looked at him challengingly. He tried to lift his hand but the guard pinned it down in an iron grasp, making him raise an exasperated eyebrow in the Magistrate's direction, who frowned but nodded at the watchman to let go.

Lukas brushed away the long strands of hair obscuring the side of his face to fully reveal the swollen gash stretched in a red, angry line along his forehead.

"Your men have not exactly been gentle," he shrugged. "This wound is deep and painful enough to make me feel faint, all the more when the air is stale and heavy with incense smoke."

"Nonsense!" the healer's voice could be heard in an indignant cry, but the Prior raised his arm appeasingly.

"Let us witness then," he said, removing a long chain from around his neck, "how the witch behaves in the presence of the holy cross." He strode resolutely to Lukas' side and seized a handful of his hair, holding his head motionless to press the heavy iron crucifix against his forehead, and Lukas was ready to laugh in the monk's face when his lungs began to burn like searing embers and smoke coalesced out of nowhere in his chest. He tried to exhale and nothing came out but a choked wheeze, and his fingers clutched desperately at his throat as he coughed and coughed until the world went dark.

 

* * *

 

 

The air seemed filled with strange whispers as he stood on the thin strip of ground under a grey, clouded sky. Shadows and smoke rose from the chasm around him, swaying and shifting in grotesque silhouettes that drifted in and out of sight, watching with unseen eyes. Lukas reached out and thin tendrils uncoiled from the twisting mass, winding tightly around his wrist. They felt warm and fragile, but when he tried to snatch his hand away they held fast, growing hot against his skin, and gossamer threads of wan light began to glow within, spreading like pulsing veins through the amassing shadows. And as the lines advanced eyes opened in their wake, narrow slits of cyan flickering like moorland mist, circling, observing, guarding. Lukas remained oddly calm, almost sedate, his body pliant like a puppet's as he followed the soft tug at his wrist to stand on the edge of the abyss. The glowing strands had roamed deep, entwining in arcane patterns, and Lukas wondered idly how it would feel if he gave in to their call and let himself go, to glide forever down shrouds of light and shades under the scrutiny of ever-wakeful eyes.

"What are you," he murmured, and his words traveled through the shadows like arrows, bounding and resounding in twisted echoes.

"Wouldn't you like to know, little one," a voice susurrated in his ear, and Lukas turned his head, suddenly alarmed though somehow doubting there would be anything for him to see, yet a figure loomed over him, tall and ominous, coils of dark steam knotting and winding in wavering human contours underneath a tattered cloak. He gasped in shock but did not recoil, mindful of the chasm under his feet; instead he lashed out in a fast blow and his fist passed through empty air as the figure twisted in a whirling vortex that darted deftly away, hovering just out of reach.

Laughter echoed mockingly and Lukas pulled again at the tendrils that held his hand captive.

"Coward," he hissed. "I'll tell you what you are, you're nothing but smoke and mirrors, you lurk inside illusions and hide behind your human pawns. Whatever trick you're trying to pull, I do not care, for we're in my mind now and here you are powerless."

Lukas seized the shadowy strands with his free hand, twisting and tearing, and they shattered apart like glass under his fingers. Cold, opalescent light broke through the clouds in shimmering veils, scattering them into nothingness as stars shone into being, and the shadows stilled suddenly under the lit up sky. Spidery cracks wove along the frozen contours with a grating whir and, as the fissures deepened, the shades exploded into countless shards, flowing up with an unearthly wail to writhe and shrivel and decay within the cage of light. A thick curtain of dust began to fall and Lukas dropped to his knees, shielding his eyes against the onslaught.

His body grew heavy under the downpour and Lukas sank slowly to the ground, his eyelids fluttering weakly under the shelter of his arm as he fell asleep, while black, glimmering dust kept raining down over the narrow stretch of land that wound on and on like a never ending trail across the abyss.

 

* * *

 

 

Lukas' eyes opened again to soft daylight and motionless figures, men and women trapped in time like ivory statues, their colors faded, their gestures unfinished and their gazes transfixed. He was still standing on the wooden dais as if only the blink of an eye had gone by, the hall almost the same as he remembered it, almost real but for the shroud of stillness enveloping it. The monk was gone though, nowhere to be seen, and only his cross remained behind, fallen on the ground, the long iron chain coiled at Lukas' feet.

Lukas felt strangely vulnerable in spite of the seeming absence of danger. Strong grips around both his arms kept him in place, the two guards now on his either side, leaving Emil to stand alone and ignored. Lukas smiled bitterly. Had the boy not become as much of a statue as everyone else, he could have walked away so easily, unhindered by restraining hands, out of the door and far from the nightmare that their lives had become. But this frozen rag doll cast so perfectly in Emil's likeness was not his brother; his brother was left to fend for himself in the real world while Lukas was trapped in a pointless game of hide and seek.

This had to end.

"Show yourself!" Lukas cried out, but nothing moved in the absolute silence that followed. Even the specks of dust floating in the air were still, scattering only when they got caught in the soft flow of air that took shape with his every breath.

"Show yourself or get the hell out of my mind!" Lukas yelled again, and this time shadows shifted slowly in the corners and the board creaked under invisible steps.

"Why are you so sure," the same voice as before whispered mockingly from behind him, "that we are in your mind right now? We could be in mine, or in your sweet little brother's, or even," the voice paused as shadows began to amass around Emil's feet and crept in thick ropes up to his shoulders, "all of this could be real, and your brother is really here with us, and I will be carving my mark in his real flesh..."

Doubt shot through Lukas' mind as the shadows sharpened in pointed claws and crawled over Emil's chest, leaving five deep, bloody lines in their wake.

"No! Get away, damn it!" he hollered, struggling against his restrains but his arms felt as if encased in stone and the claws kept to their trail, pausing right above Emil's heart.

"I shall have so much fun playing with you, little one," the disembodied voice taunted again, and the claws plunged deep in the boy's heart.

Lukas' lips parted in a desperate scream and the shadows fell back like tumbling waves, seeping away through the cracks in the floor. Long, papery strips began to peel off the motionless bodies like withered skin, and as their true colors began to show underneath, so did their movements resume, jerky and faltering, but Lukas' gaze was only on his brother who remained rooted on his place, immobile, bleeding, purple eyes wide and glazed.

"Enough," he whispered, "enough..."

He let his body sag in his guards' grasp and closed his eyes in surrender, while voices rose around him, faint and distorted, then stronger and stronger, until distinct words emerged from the din.

"... heard him... scream... holy cross... pleading for me to get away... witches..."

Lukas opened his eyes and raised his head slowly. His body felt weak, barely upright in the guards' hold, and the hall was in an uproar as the monk finished his speech, but Emil was there, trembling and in tears yet _alive_ , and Lukas breathed out in relief, but tensed again when the boy tried to speak.

"Please," Emil blurted out and the room went silent, "please, my brother was hurt, he is not well..."

"Is that so, child?" the monk turned to him. "Then perhaps you might be better suited to answer my next question."

Lukas tried to speak, to draw the monk away from his brother, but his throat felt raw and swollen and nothing but a low moan made its way past his lips. Instead he looked at Emil, his eyes demanding, pleading with him to keep quiet, but the boy avoided his gaze and nodded.

If the monk felt any satisfaction, he did not show it. With a blank face, he retrieved a small, leather bound case that had so far rested forgotten on the table. "Do you know what this is, child?" he asked.

Emil swallowed. "Y-yes, these are my brother's medicine supplies, but..."

The monk raised a hand to stop him. He fumbled with the latch and lifted the lid; rows of carefully corked vials stood neatly inside, and when he removed one and held it out for everyone to see, it shone a vivid green in the daylight. The monk shook the vial gently and tiny, golden spirals twirled inside the clear liquid.

"Does this look like anything he ever sold you?" he asked, turning to the audience.

The townsfolk shook their heads silently.

"Then take a moment and think - for what purpose were these concoctions brewed? Are they poisons? Potions to be used in foul rituals?"

"No!" Emil cried out, before the audience could explode in another outburst. "It's just medicine, it does no harm..."

The monk put down the case and approached the boy with a predatory look in his eyes. He uncorked the vial and balanced it carefully between his fingers. "Would you vouch for that, child? Would you be willing to prove it?"

The audience held their breath as Emil reached out and took the vial with a shaking hand. The liquid inside was unfamiliar but he knew he could not back out, not anymore. Hesitatingly, he approached the vial to his lips and let a drop fall on his tongue, then swallowed. It tasted sour, with a tinge of something acrid, and he closed his eyes and held his breath waiting for something to happen, yet to his relief no strange effects followed. But when he tried to give the vial back, the monk's hands took hold of his nape and wrist and forced him to down most of the contents, and just as the man released him, his stomach constricted and his body began to spasm as he fell to the floor, retching violently.

The vilest curses he knew flashed through Lukas' mind as he struggled in his captors' grasp, mute and powerless, watching his brother play right into the accursed monk's trap, and, in his fury, he did not hear the familiar, commanding voice bark at the guards to let him go as soon as the boy had collapsed. The guards’ hands released him and he stumbled forward and fell hard on his knees next to his brother. Mindless of his own pain, he cradled the boy's convulsing body while heavy steps followed behind him as Berwald approached the table and bent to speak quietly to the Magistrate.

The townsfolk had risen to their feet and were whispering to each other, throwing uneasy looks at the sick child. As minutes passed by, Emil was left nothing more to heave and he grew still in his brother's arms, but his eyes were closed and his breath came out in wheezes, his chest rising and falling fitfully under Lukas' hands, and Lukas lifted his head and took in the assembly, his eyes burning hatefully in his blank face.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked, his voice nothing but a coarse rasp. "Did you get what you came here for? Do you feel proud for watching that god damned bastard poison a child without lifting a finger to stop him? And you," he turned to the monk who stood smugly on the side, "what the hell did you think you could prove? Any blithering idiot knows that too much of a medicine, too much of anything can only do more harm than good."

"You'd better cease your blaspheming, witch," the Prior hissed, taking a step forward menacingly, "and start praying that your punishment in Hell will be easier than you deserve."

The scraping of wood on wood made everyone turn their eyes to the Magistrate, who pushed his chair back noisily and stood up. "Now, let none of us get ahead of ourselves," he spoke firmly and, stepping around the pool of vomit that stained the wooden boards, he knelt next to the brothers. "Stay still," he warned, and he prodded the wound on Lukas' forehead with light fingers. Lukas bit back a hiss of pain and stared back with a look of unadulterated hatred.

Roderich shook his head and straightened up. "I thank Prior Tobias for bringing forth proof of the prisoners' guilt, but," he announced, "for now I believe that much of it could also have more... mundane roots."

A brief look of surprise passed over the monk's face and he tried to speak, but the Magistrate silenced him with a raised hand.

"Yes, Prior Tobias, I know that this was hardly all the evidence you had, however I would rather not make a hasty decision and decided to resume this trial once both prisoners are in a better shape to attend. Still," he continued, turning to face Lukas, "there is one matter that needs to be taken care of right now. Young man, barely a word came out of your mouth today that was anything else than either defiance or disrespect. Clearly you need to be taught some humility, thus you will spend the remainder of the day and the entire night under guard in the town square, for public disgrace."

Lukas' eyes widened as he tightened his hold on his brother. "This cannot be," he whispered. "My brother is sick, he needs me. Let me cure him, and then I can endure any punishment you consider fit, and more." He swallowed thickly. "Please."

"It defies the purpose of a punishment if it is carried out only when the one at fault sees fit," Roderich answered coldly. "We have a healer who can tend your brother just as well as you."

"I beg your pardon, Magistrate," the healer countered from his seat in the front row, "but I will have nothing to do with these accursed creatures. If the boy cannot make it through the night, so much the better, there will be one witch less in this world."

"You despicable wretch..." Lukas gasped, but the remainder of his words was drowned when a voice, timid yet resolute, cut in.

"Sir, if I may, I could look after Emil."

Lukas turned his head abruptly to watch Tino shake his father's hand from his shoulder and stand up from his seat. The determined violet gaze locked with his own despairing eyes as the Magistrate coughed beside him, obviously baffled.

"And who might you be, boy?" he asked.

"I am, or rather," Tino added sheepishly, seeing the old man's furious stare, "it seems that I was the healer's apprentice. I will take care of Emil if you allow me."

The Magistrate measured him up and down, and then nodded. "I don't see why not. I consider this matter closed, then. Commander, make sure my orders are carried out." Turning on his heel, he left the hall by the same side door he had entered, and the monk followed him hurriedly with a swish of black robes.

Berwald sighed and moved to the two guards who were standing at attention, while Tino pushed his way through the retreating townsfolk and climbed on the dais. He sat down on the floor and placed his hand on Emil's brow next to Lukas'. The boy's skin was hot and moist with sweat, and the two exchanged a tense look. Tino reached out and picked up the discarded vial.

"Do you remember what this was and what plants you used?" he asked.

Lukas took the vial and twirled it in his fingers, then swallowed to relieve his broken voice.

"It was an antidote. Snakeroot, mostly. But the common dose is three drops..." He let the vial fall and grasped Tino's wrist with a quick motion, and the boy flinched under the intensity of his stare. "You put yourself in danger, Tino, more than you think. Promise me that from tomorrow on you will stay away from us, no matter what."

Tino freed his wrist gently and entwined his fingers with Lukas' trembling ones. "I will be fine," he smiled. "Emil will be safe. Do not worry for us."

Lukas jerked his hand away. "Don't do that," he hissed, and turned his head from Tino's bewildered gaze.

"We can go," Berwald's voice cut in, making Tino jump in surprise. "Let me take your brother."

Lukas gritted his teeth and released his hold on Emil, allowing Berwald to hoist the unconscious child in his arms. With a last reassuring nod, Berwald walked away, carrying the silver-haired boy with a gentleness unexpected in a man so fearsome, and Tino got to his feet and followed, pausing before the door to throw one more glance back. Lukas was still down on his knees, his empty hands lying listlessly at his side, his slender frame inert but for the soft rise and fall of his chest, and looking so unbelievably fragile, like a hollow statue carelessly put together out of thin slivers of tarnished glass.

 

* * *

 

 

His body felt like a worthless shell, drained of everything that mattered. Drained of will, drained of strength, drained of thoughts, drained even of life. When the guards prodded him upright, he stood up. When they pushed him forward, he walked, step after step out of the door and down the road, oblivious to all but the rough edges of the cobblestones under the soles of his boots. When they moved through crowds, hands tore at his clothes and hair with hungry claws until the guards had to threaten the assaulters away, but he could have stood still and let them rip him apart, limb from limb, for all he cared. And when they reached the pillory that waited like a gaped maw to clasp around his hands and neck but he was forced to his knees and only his chain was secured to the wooden contraption, up above his head, he was too lost for the world to feel any sort of relief for the small kindness. The taunts and insults carried no more weight than the rumble of distant ocean waves and when a lump of mud flew to smear his face and hair he was hanging limp in his shackles, halfway sunken into a swoon mercifully devoid of visions and spectres.

 

* * *

 

 

Matthias stood silently in the midst of the jeering crowd, his fists clenching and unclenching in the fabric of his coat, aching to feel flesh and bones smash under his knuckles. A menacing growl took shape at the back of his throat as a second chunk of dirt crushed against the prisoner's exposed neck, making his head reel disjointedly, and Elizaveta's hold tightened on his forearm.

"This is beyond cruel," he snarled, looking down at the woman next to him, and she stared back, her green eyes equally outraged but cold.

"And what would you do? Break his chains and fight for him to the death?" she snapped. "This is not a play, Matthias, pain is real and death is real and you need to learn when to fight and when to back away because here the odds are almost never in your favour."

Matthias' eyebrows shot up. "Ah. You are a genius, Liz," he smirked, extricating his arm with ease from her grasp and bowing to place a kiss on her cheek. "Help me, will you?"

The woman shot him a deadly glare. "What idiocy has crossed your mind this time?"

"These people are here for entertainment," Matthias stated grimly, "and I will give them entertainment."

His eyes found a deserted spot at the edge of the square, well away from the scaffold, and he strode off resolutely, pushing the townsfolk out of his way somewhat more roughly than it was really needed. Elizaveta drew herself closer to her remaining companions and together they watched with identically resigned expression on their faces as Matthias recomposed his features almost effortlessly into a cheerful mask and began to shout from the top of his lungs.

"My friends! Gather around to witness a tale of bravery, love and betrayal unravel right before your eyes!"

Elizaveta and Arthur exchanged nonplussed looks as Matthias launched into the prologue of a play and the townsfolk began to edge closer curiously, forgetting about the previous object of their amusement.

"We should go and join that idiot before the crowd flays him alive, I guess," Elizaveta sighed. "Come, Gil, and don't you dare take off that wig, we're in enough trouble as it is."

"You do that," Arthur muttered, still staring incredulously, "and I will run to the inn and send you Feliks. You will forgive me if I don't rejoin you, but I will need to watch my brat of a brother and I've had more than my share of insanity for today."

"Traitor," Elizaveta hissed back, and made her way through an audience already entranced, dragging a madly grinning albino after her, while Matthias watched their progress with a badly disguised look of triumph on his face.

 

* * *

 

 

Rhythmic inflexions coaxed Lukas awake, playing a hypnotic tune against the closed barriers of his mind, but when at last he opened his eyes to narrow indigo slits, the soothing refrain was lost to a loud voice pounding irritatingly in his ears. The light was too bright and the voices too strong and he retreated again within the confines of his dormant consciousness, wondering why the deafening accents had seemed so oddly familiar.

The second time he came to, a hand was brushing through his hair, scraping away the flecks of dried mud that had sealed the long strands uncomfortably against his skin, and he pulled back with a jolt, his vision still clouded but his body instantly alert for danger. A low hiss escaped his lips when his restrained wrists kept him in place.

"Easy, I won't hurt you," Berwald's deep voice murmured, and Lukas blinked the fog away from his eyes. The large man was leaning over him, his expression unreadable and his right hand still outstretched.

"Emil?.." Lukas croaked, his throat still dry and throbbing.

"He's no worse," Berwald answered, picking up a flask of water from the ground and holding it to Lukas' lips, waiting patiently for the other man to drink with slow, tentative swallows. "I took him back to his cell and Tino has not left his side since."

Lukas shook his head to push the flask away and looked Berwald straight in the eyes, his gaze so piercing that Berwald felt the urge to look away.

"If you still want to help, don't leave them alone in that prison. Don't let them spend the night alone and unprotected. Something... somebody is going to great lengths to get their hands on us no matter what and there's no certainty that a handful of easily corrupted guards or some locked doors will stop them."

Berwald frowned. "I would be in a better position to help you," he retorted sternly, "if you trusted me enough to tell me what you did to make the Church single you and your brother out of everyone else as their target."

Lukas kept his mouth shut and stared back stubbornly and Berwald shook his head in disapproval.

"Fine," he said, standing up to leave. "I will remain by your brother tonight, this much I can promise."

"Wait!" Lukas called, another piece of memory falling back into place. "What happened with my case of medicines?"

Berwald paused and searched his mind. "I believe," he said at last, "I saw Prior Tobias give it to that old man, the healer, on my way out."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Lukas cursed. "Whatever you do, don't allow that old fraud to keep it. He's too much of a fool to have the faintest idea what to do with it and he'll end up killing someone with the wrong medicine." _And put the blame on us for sure, if we're still here to take it._

Berwald nodded, but his lips were drawn in a thin line. "I hope you understand before it's too late," he said warningly, "that everything you've done so far only makes this predicament more difficult for yourself."

"Yes, I need to understand," Lukas whispered as the other man turned away. "I need to understand so I know how to fight back."

His reasoning had broken free from the bonds of lethargy and despair during his unwilling rest, and he had no words to describe the relief he felt to have his mind once again as his own and ablaze with thoughts. He had to think, he had to plan and raise his defenses, and with his body thrall to the will of his captors, a clear mind was the sole weapon he possessed.

The sun was still high up, shining dully from behind the layer of clouds that had concealed the sky for the better part of the week, and Lukas counted with an involuntary shudder the number of hours still left of his ordeal. His arms were fastened at an awkward angle high above his head and a painful pressure was building down his arms and into his shoulders, and he pulled sharply at his chains, but all he earned was a reprimand and a curse from the guards who had kept themselves out of his sight and now saw fit to approach and take up their position at the edge of the scaffold. Lukas sighed and dismissed them from his attention, grudgingly thankful to know them by his side as his only shield against the mob gathered just a few steps away and bound to turn back on him at a moment's whim. Wave after wave of cruel faces and jeering calls emerged nauseatingly from his memory and he wondered tensely what sort of miracle could be keeping them so enthralled. The wall of their bodies covered whatever was going on in their midst and all he could hear was a soft woman's voice, reciting - or chanting - something unintelligible. The woman paused and men's voices followed, seemingly locked in a fight, both loud and jarring in their intonation, one disturbingly familiar, and Lukas winced when he recognized the raucous tones that had grated so on his half-awoken mind. A man's head and torso came into view above the crowd - he must have climbed on a bench or some other sort of support, Lukas reasoned - and when he spoke the same obnoxious voice came out of his mouth. The man turned around but his gaze flew over his audience and trained unerringly on the chained prisoner, and seeing him awake and watching, his expression faltered for a brief moment into something similar to relief, quickly disguised by a wide smile. Lukas stared back into the icy blue eyes he remembered only too well, and his breath hitched in disbelief when the other man grinned and winked at him openly, as if they were two old friends, accomplices in the same prank.

"This must be a sick joke," Lukas groaned and closed his eyes, willing the outside world away.

Berwald pushed the heavy cell door open and his strained posture loosened when his gaze fell on the violet-eyed boy, pale and tense but thankfully unharmed, and he stepped in, carefully closing the door behind him. He had left the cell unlocked to allow Tino to call for help should the child's condition worsen, and he had regretted his decision as soon as the elder prisoner's warning had wormed its way into his mind, making him hasten his pace as much as he could without running. Earlier that day he had brought in two chairs, and he pulled one over by the wall, sitting down heavily and unbuckling his sword to place it next to him on the floor.

Tino looked up and smiled sadly from his place next to the bed, where he had been wiping Emil's brow with a wet cloth, and Berwald's heart ached as he watched them, both so young and innocent, so out of place in the middle of the dingy cell lit by the flame of a single candle.

"Is he better?" he asked, and Tino shrugged.

"It's too early to tell. If Lukas remembered well, Emil was given some sort of snakeroot brew, that's an herb, a few drops are an antidote, in larger quantities it's a poison itself, quite a contradiction, I don't think I've ever seen Lukas use it, he must have been keeping it as a last resort, and Emil swallowed quite a lot but he threw most of it up right away so he should be fine in the end, and I will need you to bring me some more water soon, oh and I'm babbling again, I'm so sorry," he added hastily at the sight of Berwald's confused expression. "How is Lukas faring? Did they harm him? He seemed so... so lost, I've never seen him like this, ever."

Berwald frowned again. "He's fine now. As foul-mouthed and obstinate as before. It's a miracle that he did not receive a worse punishment or that the crowd did not hurt him in some way."

Tino's face grew hard and he threw the cloth forcefully in the bowl he kept at hand, splashing water over the edge. "Please don't say this. He's not had an easy life, not by any stretch of the imagination and though I may not like it, I understand why he acts like he does. You must rescue them if you can, Berwald, please."

As unwilling as Berwald was to pry and chance losing the trust of the one person who in such short a time had seen beyond his unwelcoming appearance and accepted him for what he was, he sensed something strange and, given the circumstances, downright dangerous in this unlikely alliance between the jaded prisoner accused of such heavy crimes and Tino, so kind and trusting, a connection strong enough to turn both of them so fiercely protective.

"I will do everything in my power for the child, but," he said warily, "how can I save someone who does not know how to accept help? That man is hiding something, and as long as he will not speak to me nor heed my warnings there is not much I can do to protect him."

Tino lowered his eyes and took hold again of the drenched cloth, wringing it out and placing it neatly on the silver-haired boy's brow. The silence that followed was only broken by Emil's uneven breathing and seemed to drag on forever as Tino combed his fingers through the other boy's tangled locks. Finally he sighed and his violet gaze turned back to Berwald, equally pleading and challenging.

"I will tell you something I've never shared with anyone before, and I trust you will not use this against my friends. Six years ago," he continued, choosing his words carefully, "a disease of the lungs spread through our town, and my mother and I caught it somehow. We were both growing weaker day after day and the healer was at a loss of what to do, he kept giving us worthless medicine, until one evening he decided to bleed us. I was lying in that bed and I didn't even know I was dying, that my life was seeping away with every drop of blood, everything felt like a twisted dream. And then Lukas came. I don't know why, I don't know how, but he brought me back, Berwald, one moment I was knocking at death's gates, the following I was awake and healed. And I could not let him go. My mother had died that night and I was but a child and I clang to him. I did not know it back then, but he was on the run, hiding from something, and yet he came back for me and never moved on.

"It is true that he is different than the rest of us, and probably Emil is as well, but I promise they are not the monsters they make them out to be. I cannot tell you more for Lukas never speaks much about himself, at least not about anything that matters, and I never asked. Maybe something from their past caught up with them, or maybe they made new enemies. But they are my only friends and now I feel guilty for asking them to stay."

Tears glistened in Tino's eyes, ready to be shed, and Berwald reached out and brushed his fingers along the boy's face. "I understand," he said softly, and to his amazement, Tino did not draw away but pressed his warm cheek against his hand.

 

* * *

 

As the evening came near, mist drifted through the streets, in the beginning nothing more than a dampness in the air that soon condensed in a thin veil floating about like humid smoke and consuming all remnants of the feeble warmth that still lingered in the wake of the setting sun. It was getting colder and colder by the hour and not long after the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon the mist thickened to an opaque wall that tried to squeeze its way through the tiniest cracks in doors or windows.

There was just a window open on the tall facade of the inn, all the others having been bolted shut against the cold for quite some time, and anyone passing underneath would have shuddered at the sight of the albino man peering through the mist like a colourless ghost. He was leaning out dangerously, trying to make out shapes in the darkened fog, but even the nearest houses were nothing more than faint stretches of black behind the murky shroud.

"This fog is as weird as they come, it's almost like it had a mind of its own and was prowling around to seize unsuspecting travellers," he turned his head to smirk towards his yet unseen companions.

"Do we have to wait for it to snatch you away as well before we can close that bloody window?" Arthur's sullen voice retorted and Gilbert rolled his eyes but slammed the window shut. Several vapory tendrils floated past him and dissipated in the indoor warmth.

"There was nothing to see anyway, it's getting too damn cold for anyone to go outside in this weather," the albino huffed and, throwing himself face down on his bed, he reached into the knapsack that stood wide open on the other side with pieces of clothing poking out haphazardly.

"Yes, yes, whatever keeps you happy and quiet," Arthur mumbled absent-mindedly. He had taken possession of the room's only table and turned it into a mess of scribbled paper, and he was tracing a neat path across a fresh sheet with an ink-stained quill held tightly in his equally stained fingers.

"It's still beyond my understanding," Gilbert said, his voice muffled, "why you could not stay and work in your own room." He had finished ransacking his bag without coming across the object of his search, and was now reaching under the bed with his face buried in the coverlet.

"Because, as much as it pains me to admit it," Arthur answered, lifting his gaze briefly from his papers, "putting my brother in the same room as Feliks ends up in more chaos than you two twits combined could ever conjure."

"We are getting old," Gilbert sighed theatrically, "and must contend ourselves with more peaceful pastimes." He emerged triumphantly with a deck of cards in his hand. "What do you say mate, do you want to try and win your money back?"

The target of his question was lying on his own bed, fully dressed and with his long, booted legs dangling over the edge. There was distant look in his eyes, and his once cheerful face was set in hard lines. "As far as I remember it was the other way around, and no," he said, and lifting himself on his elbows he stood up and reached for the coat hanging carelessly on the bedstead.

"Where do you think you're going in this weather?" Gilbert asked, but Matthias ignored him and buttoned up his coat.

"Not everyone is allowed to take shelter tonight," he answered finally, heading for the door. His two companions exchanged a worried look.

"Matthias," the albino said carefully, and the other man turned his head with his hand on the door handle. "I think you are simply deprived. In a few days we reach a larger town and you'll find plenty of company to warm your bed for a pittance, both women and men, a dime a dozen. He is handsome, I'll grant him that, but even if he were not... what they say he is, it's not worth it to put your life even more on the line for the sake of a pretty face."

Matthias stared back with a blank face but his knuckles were white on the handle. "I'm not expecting any of you to understand," he said dryly and, stepping over the threshold, he closed the door firmly behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

The fog embraced Matthias like a long-lost possession as he paced silently down the empty streets. The hour was late and nothing stirred behind the tightly sealed shutters but for flickering lamplights shining timidly here and there, at the edge of a world of swerving obscurity. He had no choice but to feel his way around the corners in slow progression, and for a short while he believed himself hopelessly lost, the streets he had come to know now disguised into a tortuous labyrinth. A wrong turn, and then another carried him into a narrow back alley and he paused under a long, unplastered stone wall to consider his choices. Even if he were to retrace his steps, he was under no illusion he would find the right way so easily, so he kicked at the wall in annoyance and slid down on the cobblestones. The stirred up mist settled back around his body, but as he sat still he became aware of a slow shift in the vapors against his exposed palms, like an undercurrent following a separate path. Intrigued, he pulled his right sleeve up and reached out, holding his arm perfectly motionless and a soft, damp breeze brushed against his skin. It seemed to float steadily to his right along the wall, and he stood up and edged forward carefully, keeping his eyes on the ground. Not far away, a darker patch stood out against the stones and Matthias came closer and crouched in front of it. He had come across an opening in the wall, blocked by thick iron bars, through which the mist poured down in dense waves. It was pitch black inside and as much as Matthias squinted he could only make out a rectangular outline vaguely luminescent in the darkness, surely the contours of a door lit up from the outside by a distant glow, and yet he needed nothing more to understand that he had strayed as far as a yet unfamiliar side of the Watch House. His whereabouts were now plain and he dismissed the strange vapory phenomenon, skimming along the wall in search of a breach that would lead him around the building and into known territory.

By the time Matthias reached the wide street leading up to the town square, his lungs were drawing breath sluggishly, unwilling to take in any more of the air suffused with freezing moisture, and he paused to rest against a tree trunk. The road lay straight in front of him and at the very end a faint light seemed to glow, nearly concealed behind thick veils of haze. It shone close to the ground, flickering elusively in and out of sight, and Matthias smiled, half-forgotten tales of wayfarers led astray by mischievous marsh lights crossing his mind for the first time in so many years. He still loved those bittersweet stories with their ghosts and fairies carrying their everburning lanterns through the mist to lure unwary travellers, sometimes to buried treasure, often to death and, as he resumed his strides, he found himself wishing the legends were real, just for one night, so he could tempt his fate and join in that magical game of unfair odds and irresistible rewards.

And yet it was a mere oil lamp that had guided his steps, with the flame encased in tall glass against the humidity. It had been left on the scaffold to throw a narrow circle of light around the chained prisoner, and Matthias approached slowly, mesmerized by the shadows dancing on the captive's finely carved features, endlessly reshaping them into a shifting mask of sharpened curves and deepened angles of an almost otherworldly allure.

Lukas' eyes were closed but he was clearly awake, his back too straight and his head too high and his fingers clenching and unclenching weakly against his shackles, and yet he seemed oblivious to the other's man presence, even as Matthias drew ever so close, until nothing more than an arm's length separated them. Matthias faltered. He had left the warmth of his room driven solely by instinct, without any plan or expectation, and now he felt certain that no amount of thinking would have helped him cope with such an unnatural apathy. For too long had he thrived on chaos, on action and reaction, and he no longer knew how to act in the presence of silence. He hated how this strange man with his strange ways had made him question his every thought and deed hundreds of times in the span of only three days, yet for Lukas himself he felt nothing but the purest awe and fascination. It was his own hesitation he loathed, so unlike anything else in his nature, that kept him even now paralyzed though there was nothing he wanted more than to shake that living statue awake and to rend his shield of impassivity apart, piece by piece, until he reached the fierce core of which he had only caught too brief a glimpse.

Still he needed to quench somehow the inescapable longing to feel the touch of that snowy skin under his fingertips and slowly, reverently he reached out and brushed his fingers against the other man’s pale face. His skin was soft but cold, so cold that Matthias’ warm hands felt as hot as embers next to it, and he drew back hastily, as if afraid he might leave a burning trail on the flawless ivory.

And it was then that Lukas’ eyes finally snapped open, pushing Matthias another step back with the simple weight of their unwavering gaze, and for a long moment Matthias forgot how to breathe, trapped in the indigo deepened by shadows into fathomless pools of darkness. But then Lukas blinked once, twice, breaking the spell and Matthias drew a deep breath into his empty lungs.

“You… you startled me,” he spoke, his voice out of place in the lingering silence. “I am Matthias,” he added, holding out his hand by force of habit, and then dropped it guiltily at the sight of the prisoner’s bound arms, silently cursing his clumsiness.

Lukas raised an elegant eyebrow in mock amazement. “So incredibly fortunate that out of all who could have tried to assault me tonight I end up with the one who's so considerate that he takes the time to introduce himself beforehand.”

Matthias’ eyes widened, horrified at the implication. “No, no, you’ve got me all wrong, I’ve not come to hurt you,” he blurted out, waving his arms in denial.

“Then why are you here?” Lukas retorted, watching him through narrowed eyelids. “I don’t believe anyone would bother to come here at this time of the night unless he means some harm, or,” he added as an afterthought, “unless he’s a complete idiot.”

“I must be an idiot then,” Matthias laughed, his confidence restored by means of the familiar banter, and he approached again to sit down on the edge of the scaffold. It brought him even closer to the prisoner than before, and small details hidden by distance and shadows were now uncovered to his probing gaze. Lukas’ lips were tinged with a bluish hue, and when he fell silent he held his jaw rigidly tight, as if to keep his teeth from clattering, and all of a sudden Matthias understood why the captive’s skin had been so cold to his touch.

“You’re freezing,” he stated matter-of-factly and without wasting time to consider it, he jumped to his feet on the scaffold and took Lukas’ hands in his own. They felt as icy as he had expected, and disturbingly unpliant, and he clutched the frozen fingers, trying to coax some warmth back into them. Lukas hissed angrily and struggled to pull his hands away.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, glaring upwards at the other man, but for once Matthias remained unfazed.

“Do you really want to lose your fingers to frostbite?” he scolded, and when Lukas stopped moving he resumed rubbing his hands unhindered. Lukas inhaled sharply from pain as blood began to flow back with a vengeance through his frozen limbs and Matthias bent his head to breathe warm air soothingly on his fingers. He only let go when Lukas was finally able to bend his fingers again freely, and he dropped to his knees on the wooden boards, looking the other man straight in the eyes.

“I have not given you any reason to mistrust me,” he said, his expression stern, “so please believe me when I say that I only mean to help you. If I leave you like this you will most likely freeze to death until morning and there’s only one way in which I can keep you warm.”

Lukas did not answer back, watching warily as Matthias began to unbutton his coat. Matthias sighed heavily, for the prisoner looked as if only his restrains were keeping him from punching him in the guts or running away or both. And, before the other man could react, Matthias pulled him tightly into his arms, closing his coat as closely as it allowed over both of them. Lukas stiffened in his embrace, and his chains clattered with a short, ugly sound, but Matthias kept his arms perfectly still on his back.

“It’s all right, I won’t hurt you, I promise,” he whispered, and Lukas began to give in to the warmth in spite of himself.

“You’re not as frightening as you think,” he muttered grudgingly, “I just don’t like to be touched, is all.”

Matthias laughed softly. “Oh, shut up and try to rest of you can,” he said and smiled in relief when Lukas sighed and let his head fall on his shoulder. Lukas’ long, golden strands felt soft against his neck and when he looked down he could see those mystifying eyes, half-concealed behind thick eyelashes, staring thoughtfully into nowhere.

 

The light of dawn was breaking feebly through the clouds and the fog had dissipated to a translucent haze when Matthias felt the other man stir in his arms.

“You should leave now, they will come to take me away soon,” he heard Lukas whisper, and Matthias unfolded his arms reluctantly from around the slender form. His limbs were numb and his eyes were burning from the fatigue of spending the entire night awake, trying to support Lukas’ body in the hope that the other man might sleep, and as he staggered up a thousand needles stabbed at his legs.

“Be safe,” he murmured, fighting the urge to draw his fingers through Lukas’ hair.

Lukas stared back with blank eyes. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

Matthias scoured his mind frantically. There were dozens of answers he could give, but he chose the one that at that moment seemed to be the most sincere. “I don’t really know,” he sighed.

Lukas turned away, the shade of a feeling flashing through his eyes, gone before the other man could even recognize it. “Thank you,” he whispered almost indistinctly. As Matthias’ steps moved slowly away he looked up, yet his gaze did not follow the retreating figure but the shadows slithering back into dark corners, chased away by the light of the morning sun.


	4. Veiled Revelations

Time seemed suspended inside the dense cocoon of shadows and flickering candle light, captured, petrified before it could seep through the joints between the massive blocks of stone. Berwald could no longer remember when the night started nor fathom when it would end. His breath marked seconds, minutes, hours that trickled out into nowhere, as his mind drifted abandoned between belief and disbelief.

He had been given the key, so small and brittle, to a mystery hidden beyond the world he knew, and it taunted him, jeered at his doubt. For all matters of spirit, he considered himself a skeptic. Reason was his guiding light and reality his dogma; anything beyond what he could see or touch, nothing more than pleasure for the young or solace for the weak.

The choice was his to make – let the key slip through his open fingers and shatter forever against the ground, or turn it in the thrice-fastened lock and crack the door open to chance the look that might shake the order and rationality of his thoughts. And he found it so easy to believe now, when shadows lingered deep and somber voices rang into his mind so ominously that he almost needed to reassure himself that his sleeping companions were creatures of flesh and blood and not sprites come to tempt the limits of his sanity.

Tino had fallen pray to weariness not long before and his honeyed locks mingled with the child’s silvery strands as they shared the same uneasy rest. Berwald had pried the wet cloth from his fingers and let him slumber, heedless of his own fatigue that made even the air weigh heavily on his eyelids. And now he waited, not for the night to end but rather for something to come to pass and satisfy that feeling of apprehension he had nurtured ever since he had considered the prisoner’s earlier words in the light of the new revelations.

_Somebody or_ something _is going at great lengths to get their hands on us._

One candle had burnt through, and he had lit another. It stood now on the floor, casting a circle of light at Berwald’s feet, and his eyes sought the comfort of the glowing flame, tired of watching the dance of shadows.

And then he froze.

Thin ribbons of mist were seeping through the crack under the door, coming together in a writhing mass that covered the floor inch by inch. It crawled slowly, painstakingly, spreading to all corners and closing around them like a trap. Berwald’s gaze did not leave the advancing boundary as he stood up and reached out to shake Tino’s shoulder. The boy stirred under his hand and yawned obliviously.

“Did I fall asleep? I’m sorry,” he mumbled, looking up with sleep-addled eyes, and then fell quiet as he took in Berwald’s grim face. “Berwald? What’s going on?” he added, and the other man simply pointed around with a wide gesture.

“We need to leave. Now,” he said, and Tino’s eyes grew wide as he caught sight of the gathering mist. It had reached them by then, licking at the soles of their boots, and Tino jumped to his feet so fast that his chair fell over with a noise that rang discordantly to his senses already taut with fear. It balanced on one edge for a moment, and then rolled over again, toppling the sole candle as it crashed down.

The cell went dark and silent as both men barely dared to breathe. And then a scream echoed behind them, sharp and agonizing, jolting Tino from his momentary paralysis and he stumbled back and fumbled blindly for the boy on the bed.

“We need light,” he cried out, but Berwald was already at the door, pulling it open with a strength that almost tore it from the hinges. Beyond the threshold the world was transformed. A half-consumed torch burned weakly at the foot of the stairs, and mist hung in tatters under the faltering light, slithering down the walls and swirling in the air in thick, serpentine strands. Berwald gritted his teeth and took a step forward, then broke in full stride. The mist swayed to accommodate his body and curled harmlessly around his limbs when he reached out to take hold of the torch. The wooden handle felt solid and real in his hand as he turned on his heel and hurried back, the hovering veils parting before him, hissing and dissolving into billowing steam each time they tried to traverse the swaying flame.

The sight that unfolded under the shivering circle of light made the torch tumble to the ground from his rigid fingers. The bed was nothing more than a indistinct shape under a shroud of wavering mist that send thick tendrils to coil like rope around Emil’s body. His cries had subsided to choked gasps as vapory strands slithered into his nostrils and through his parted lips, and he struggled weakly in Tino’s arms while the other boy tried in vain to brush the mist away from his face. The vapors slid through his fingers and came back together unperturbed by his feeble attempts, and the look of dismay in Tino’s eyes mirrored Berwald’s own when he lifted his head in a silent plea for help.

Berwald’s thoughts swirled frantically through his mind. Nothing but mist awaited them within and without, holding them trapped as surely as chains cast in iron. The torch still burned at his feet and he bent to retrieve it, for the small comfort that light brought, but his hand hovered above the handle as he took in the narrow circle of naked stone that surrounded the flame. Mist lurked at the edges, waiting but not daring to come forth, and Berwald pushed the torch slowly forward, watching the vapors part before it.

“Tino,” he murmured, closing his fingers around the handle, “take the child and move away from the bed.”

Tino did not question him. He grasped Emil around the shoulders and half dragged him, half tumbled to the door where Berwald was waiting. Berwald took a step forward to steady them and, as he caught them with his left arm, he threw the torch on the bed with all the force of his desperation.

Tino’s gaze followed his move and fastened on the flame burning steadily within the mist. For a silent moment, both elements stood in an unlikely embrace, as if gauging each other’s defenses. And then, within a heartbeat, fire sank deeply through straw and wood, seizing control inch by rapid inch and raising high in a luminous dance of victory.

Then came a sound, halfway between a hiss and a scream and deafeningly sharp, and the mass of vapors burst asunder in a cascade of simmering steam. Stray droplets shot through, scorchingly hot on Tino’s skin, and he turned his face away, sinking to his knees under the weight of the writhing child. And, as the mist fell apart around them, crumbling to frayed strands that twisted and trembled and faded away, Emil’s breath softened and his body settled into a swoon-like calm.

Berwald bent over them, offering Tino his hand. “It’s over,” he said, not bothering to hide the relief in his voice. “We can move someplace safer.”

Tino looked from the darkness beyond the door to the fire that ate merrily at the wooden frame of the bed and shook his head. “I feel safer here. Please, let us stay here until morning.”

Berwald sighed and straightened his back. He slipped off his coat and laid it down next to the wall, then lifted the child and set him gently on the outspread fabric. Tino followed on shaking legs and let himself fall at Emil’s side. He could feel the last remnants of his strength seeping out through his limbs, and he leant gratefully against Berwald when the larger man joined them on the floor.

“I will try,” he mumbled sleepily, following an unspoken thought.

“Hmm?”

Tino forced himself to look up at the sound of the other man’s voice. Berwald was watching him, his eyes indistinct through the fire-lit lenses of his glasses.

“Talk to Lukas, I mean. Tomorrow. Make him trust you, make him tell us what he knows.”

Berwald nodded reluctantly. “You need to be careful, Tino. He may be your friend, but you’re in danger around him.”

But Tino had already fallen asleep against his shoulder, and Berwald stretched out his legs and shifted to carry the boy’s weight more easily. His mind and body were heavy with the same fatigue that had made Tino yield without a struggle, but his thoughts held enough power to fuel his vigil.

He had peeked through the crack in the door with the reassuring certainty that he would recoil in disbelief, and yet that one taste of the world beyond had burrowed inside him like a poisonous parasite, spurring him to breach the threshold and step deeper into the ghastly unknown.

 

* * *

 

 

“They’re nowhere around, Commander,” the man spoke, slightly out of breath.

Berwald nodded curtly, without looking away from his prisoner. The night had taken a heavy toll on Lukas. His skin was ashen in the light of the clouded morning, the dark rings under his eyes had deepened to bruises and his head hung low, yet finding him alive was more than Berwald had dared hope after that night’s happenings.

A watchman was fumbling with the chains binding the captive’s hands. The first shackle clicked open and Lukas’ arm slid weakly down, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

“When did you last see your guards?” Berwald asked as the watchman moved to work on the cuff around Lukas’ right wrist.

Lukas lifted his head slowly and met Berwald’s gaze. “Around midnight, I think,” he answered with resigned weariness. “They left and never came back.”

Berwald grunted in acknowledgement and turned his head to the man waiting at his side for new orders. “Keep searching. Both of you,” he added when he heard the second shackle come open. The men bowed and strode away, vanishing from sight into a side alley.

The hour was early and the square still deserted. Cold dampness lingered in the air like the aftermath of rain, and the wind had begun to blow from the north. With each gust, Berwald’s coat flapped against his feet and Lukas’ hair flew back from his face, revealing the crimson line on his forehead that stood out starkly against the paleness of his skin.

Neither man moved. Lukas had let his head fall back against the wooden board behind him and surveyed his captor from under half-closed eyelids, still waiting for the strength to unfold his numb limbs. Berwald withstood the scrutiny with his brow creased in thought, lost in the sharp lines of the other man’s face like in the strange lines of an arcane map, searching for the subtle signs that marked him as different. Yet all he could see was a boy, painfully young and hopelessly lost behind a façade of anger and defiance, and he asked himself if, for the first time in his life, he had come to make a promise he could not fully keep.

“Come,” he said, leaning closer to the prisoner and grasping his arm to help him stand up.

Lukas turned his head in a startingly fast move and pierced him with a cold glare. “Don’t drag me around like cattle,” he spat through clenched teeth.

Berwald shrugged and stood back, crossing his arms on his chest. Lukas braced his arms against the wooden boards and dragged his legs over the edge of the scaffold, pushing himself slowly to his feet. For barely a moment he stood upright on unsteady limbs, but the first step made the ground sway under him and he closed his eyes against the nauseating sight, falling heavily on his hands and knees in the dust. He rolled on his back and drew shaky breaths of air into lungs that suddenly refused to unfold. Above, the clouds collided in leaden waves that threatened to engulf him.

Berwald watched him, caught between worry and a rising mirth that he found impossible to stifle. “Surely your dignity suffers less when you crawl like a worm in the dirt?”

Lukas drew in another breath that made his chest jolt harshly. “Go to hell,” he hissed, and Berwald shrugged again, feeling the corners of his lips curl upwards at the predictability of the retort.

“It appears that last night has taught you nothing,” he answered sternly, less angered by Lukas than by his own reaction. “You can walk or crawl if you choose, but either way, you start moving now.”

Lukas clenched his fist, his fingers leaving deep, uneven trails in the dust, but his left arm shot up driven by wrath-fuelled strength, and, gripping the edge of the scaffold like a lifeline, he rose to his feet once more. He took one step, then another, his moves still carrying an uneasiness tinged with pain, and Berwald followed, his eyes never leaving the lithe figure that marched on rigidly through the streets that began to stir awake.

 

* * *

 

 

Lukas cursed the feeling of safety that the sound of the heavy iron gate closing behind him on wailing hinges had conjured fleetingly inside his mind. Grey walls loomed ahead and for a moment Lukas stood still, battling the urge to hide deep within the stony sanctuary of his cage, but Berwald’s heavy hand pressed between his shoulder blades and he stumbled forward across the deserted courtyard. As they approached, the door swung open and the alert face of a guard peeked through the crack. A look of relief crossed the man’s eyes and he pushed the door wide, allowing the newcomers to pass.

“Message for you, Commander,” he informed Berwald. “The Magistrate is expecting you for breakfast at nine.”

Berwald acknowledged the news with a nod. “How many men are on duty this morning?” he asked.

“Just one other, Commander, and the two guarding the cells.”

“Summon four more, then fetch the register and find the names of those who stood guard by the scaffold last night,” Berwald ordered.

“At once, sir.” The man began to turn on his heel, and then faltered. “Should I send for the healer as well, Commander?”

“What for?” Berwald asked bemused, then followed the other man’s gaze and turned around.

Behind him, Lukas had barely taken one step away from the threshold. He was shaking as if caught in the throes of fever, pressing the back of his hand hard against his mouth. He met Berwald’s questioning stare with clouded eyes, and shook his head slowly. “Just let me see my brother,” he whispered.

Berwald gestured curtly. “You know the way,” he said, and Lukas willed his trembling limbs to move, sick with fear.

He had felt it as soon as the walls had closed behind him, an apprehension so dire that it slithered like maggots across his flesh and cluttered his chest with cobwebs and ash, carrying the same taste of smoke and despair he had come to know the day before. It reached up to coil around him when the trapdoor to his prison came open and it stole through his veins, suffocating his mind and his will as he climbed down the stairs and the shadows below swallowed him with the darkness of a bottomless pit. He barely knew when a door flew open and eager hands pulled him inside, clutching him in a relieved embrace, and he allowed to be lead, drawing strength from the familiar closeness.

As his senses began to fall back together once more, Lukas disentangled himself gently from Tino’s arms and approached the bed where his brother lay, taking hold of his wrist and searching for his pulse. It beat strongly and steadily, and the boy’s skin no longer glistened with a feverish sweat, and Lukas sank to his knees, pressing his head gratefully against the back of Emil’s hand.

Tino came to stand behind them. “He rests now,” he said. “The worst has passed. But last night…”

Lukas tilted his head up and looked at him, his eyes heavy with the weariness of words long left unspoken. “They were here last night, weren’t they? I can feel their touch everywhere, in the air, on the stones, around him… around you.”

Tino shuddered and drew closer, kneeling down at Lukas’ side. “Who are they, Lukas?” he asked hesitatingly. “And who are you?”

“Those who hide in the shadows,” Lukas whispered. “I wish I knew more, Tino, I truly do. And I… There are days when I don’t know what I am anymore.”

Tino fell silent for a moment, considering his words with great care. “Whoever you may be or whatever the others might think you are, I know you do not deserve this, neither of you does. Please Lukas, let me help you. Or trust Berwald at least, he’s a good man, I promise.”

Lukas’ gaze shot up. “Berwald? How…” He shook his head. “Tino, don’t you understand that any word I say may condemn us as well as those who try to protect us? If you value your life, stay well away from us and from that man who seems intent on toying with things he cannot possibly understand.”

“Then make us understand!” Tino cried out, just as the stairs groaned under heavy steps and Berwald appeared in the open door with his brow creased in a determined frown.

“You need to return home, Tino,” he spoke. “There’s nothing more you can do here.”

“But…” Tino stammered, looking back and forth between his friends.

“It’s better you go, Tino,” Lukas said dryly. “Thank you for everything.”

Tino huffed in disapproval but stood up and slipped through the door, unaware that the two men were sharing a look that boded nothing good for their next encounter.

 

* * *

 

 

The delicate jingle of silver tongs brushing against the cup as the Magistrate let two sugar cubes drop into his tea sounded as grating to Berwald’s ears as the stubborn toll of the bells announcing a Sunday mass. The tea set had been fashioned from the finest porcelain, decorated with wreaths of lavender and yellow roses and so transparent that the morning light pouring through the windows outlined the liquid inside starkly against the brim as Berwald lifted his cup to drink. The tea fell too hot on his tongue, and he put the cup back on the saucer and pushed it aside, deeming it unwise to try and handle a thing so fragile with hands rendered clumsy by a sleepless night.

Across the table, Roderich took a delicate sip and then kept the cup in both hands, rotating it gingerly between his fingers. A mischievous sparkle began to rise deep in his eyes.

“So, Commander,” he spoke with a casual tone, “it would appear that your arrival has been less welcoming than you might have expected. Between the other day’s… disturbances and the two unfortunate members of your Watch who have, by lack of better words, disappeared into the night, I shudder to imagine what you might think of our small town. I would certainly understand if you chose to pursue a more rewarding assignment elsewhere.”

Berwald held his gaze without blinking, wondering how many eyes and ears throughout the town were employed on the Magistrate’s behalf. Even before hearing the Magistrate’s words, he had somehow known that the shrewd man before him would not need him to bring up the matter of the guards’ disappearance.

“I did not join the army expecting a peaceful life, Magistrate Edelstein,” he answered evenly, “and I am needed here as much as anywhere else. I have already dispatched several men to look for the missing guards and the prisoners are safely held inside the Watch House, awaiting your orders. Is this why you wanted to see me?”

Roderich’s lips stretched in a thin smile. “Not at all, Commander. I wanted to ask you whether you had any clue why the good Prior Tobias would send a messenger at the crack of dawn to complain that some thespians were, to use his words, disturbing the peace and threatening the town’s decorum with their lewd behavior in the main square yesterday.”

 

* * *

 

 

Early in the morning, the wagon had rolled through the gate and up the streets under Elizaveta’s careful guidance, and now it stood in all its garish majesty in the middle of the town square, surrounded by a flock of reverent onlookers that thinned more and more as the day’s duties began to call them away.

Against all odds, the lumbering vehicle had turned out to be an architectural masterpiece of folding platforms and sliding panels. Amongst the gasps and exclamations of the entranced spectators, Gilbert and Matthias had pulled, pushed and rotated several panels on their hinges until the wagon became a narrow scene complete with a curtain and a small changing room in the back. The curtain hung in place, shielding the setting against the eyes of the few townsmen who still lingered in wait for new entertainment, and soft noises echoed from behind it now and then, piquing their curiosity.

Both Matthias and Gilbert had collapsed on the ground and were resting with the back against the wheels, too exhausted by their earlier efforts to even attempt to participate in the rehearsal Arthur had scheduled for that morning, while the playwright was marching up and down, muttering under his breath.

“Twenty feet to the front and thirty on the sides… and we can move the scene back some more… No, no, no!” he burst out when Feliks emerged victoriously from behind the curtain, wearing an ample white dress bedecked with pink and purple ribbons. The cleavage was almost bursting around a bosom of more than generous girth. “You’re playing a lady’s handmaid, and not some wench of dubious repute! Go back and get rid of half the padding… and of those outrageous ribbons,” he added after a moment’s consideration.

“But Arthur,“ Feliks complained, “I’ve been working on this dress for, like, at least a couple of weeks and if I do as you say I’d have to take in the seams.”

“So take them in!” Arthur bellowed, and Feliks disappeared off-stage in an indignant flurry of skirts. “Why,” he went on, “why do all of you seem so intent on ruining my play? That idiot has the fashion sense of a cheap courtesan, and you,” he pierced Matthias with a venomous glare, “you’ve done nothing else these past days than brood and sigh like a moonstruck fool. I dread to think what calamity awaits… bloody hell, what now?” he grumbled, when Gilbert jumped to his feet with a swiftness that belied his apparent fatigue, hauled himself on the stage without bothering to use the small set of stairs and followed Feliks inside. Then came a loud crack and a squeal, the curtain bulged while the wooden rod above creaked dangerously, and then it parted to release a struggling Feliks from beneath its folds. The front of his dress hung open, revealing a sling filled with rags to the brim, his hair stuck out in disheveled clumps and his face was red with fury.

“Are you out of your mind,” he screeched with a voice so shrill that everybody’s eardrums began to vibrate, “barging in like, like, some kind of ruffian and trampling on my new dress? Come out and apologize, you scoundrel!”

“It appears that this morning’s complaint might hold some credit, isn’t that right, Commander?” a calm voice spoke behind him as he paused for breath. Feliks whirled around and froze at the sight of the dreaded Commander of the Watch, approaching the wagon with the Magistrate at his side.

Arthur was pinching the bridge of his nose in uttermost annoyance. “Try and keep your mouth shut, Feliks,” he snapped, and then turned to the visitors. “My apologies, gentlemen,” he continued, accompanying his words with a curt bow. “Just an insignificant mishap with our props. What can I do for you this fine morning?”

Berwald lingered behind with his arms crossed over his chest and his face carefully schooled in a neutral expression, but Roderich came forward with his hand extended in greeting. “Mr. Kirkland, I assume?” he asked, looking Arthur straight in the eye. “Playwright, troupe leader and accomplished scholar. It has been too long since our humble town has last received such a distinguished visit. So imagine my surprise, no, my outrage when hearing that some of my fellow townsmen deemed your brief performance from yesterday as, I’m sorry to say, lewd and unbecoming for an upright community such as ours. I shall waste no time in assuring you, before any unseemly rumors reach your ears, that you are welcome to delight us with your play which will prove to be, I have no doubt, the very epitome of propriety.”

Arthur freed his fingers from Roderich’s grasp and offered in response a slanted smile that revealed one slightly elongated canine standing out against an otherwise flawless row of teeth. “My troupe and I thank you for your confidence, Magistrate,” he said. “Will we have the honor of seeing you in the public tomorrow evening?”

Roderich nodded in agreement. “I’m glad we understand one another. Now, there is…”

“Funny how your townspeople find it so hard to tell right from wrong, isn’t it, your honor?” Matthias’ voice cut in.

Arthur turned on his heel as if propelled by springs, the look in his eyes promising bloody murder, while Roderich straightened his glasses and examined Matthias with the same appalled fascination one might grant to a particularly colorful yet poisonous insect.

“I beg your pardon, young man?” he asked.

Matthias unfolded himself carelessly from his crouch to confront Roderich with all the loftiness of his superior height. “I’m just a simple man, your honor, but wouldn’t you say that something’s not quite right when one sees harm in a story and yet does not think twice before putting another human being through pain and humiliation?”

“If you speak of yesterday’s unfortunate incident, young man, know that the real harm lies in allowing crime and disobedience to prosper, and not in dealing well-deserved punishment when retribution is due,” answered Roderich dryly.

Before Matthias could retort, the curtain rustled again and Elizaveta pushed the folds aside, stepping out from the dimness within onto the makeshift scene. She had discarded her daily garb for a luxurious dress that fell around her body in smooth, green layers and rustled like autumn leaves as she moved. She kept her back straight and her chin high, walking across the worn wooden platform with the grace and dignity of a queen. 

“Please, do not take offence at my companion’s words,” she said when she reached the top of the stairs, her eyes shining with barely concealed mirth. “You may not believe it but deep down, under all those layers of rowdiness and swagger, he hides a kind heart.”

Roderich approached and bowed hastily, holding out his hand. Elizaveta laid her palm upon his and descended, holding the folds of her skirt just high enough to show a pair of delicate, satin shoes and the slim ankles above. For a moment they measured each other, and then Roderich bent and touched the back of her hand with his lips.

“Far be it from me,” he said, “to deny the request of such a lovely lady. If any offence was given, it is now forgotten.”

Elizaveta smiled. “I knew you were a generous man, Magistrate. But,” she added, looking over his shoulder and slipping her fingers from his hold, “it would be selfish of me to retain you, when others appear to be seeking a portion of your time.”

Roderich turned his head. One watchman was waiting behind him, while the other was speaking to Berwald in hushed tones.

“What do you want?” Roderich snapped.

“We found one of them, your honour, and we’re waiting for you and for Commander Oxenstierna before taking him away.”

“Fine, we’ll be on our way,” Roderich answered. “My lady, Mr. Kirkland, I leave you to your rehearsal.”

Arthur came to stand at Elizaveta’s shoulder and together they watched the visitors depart. “You can come out now,” Elizaveta called when the men disappeared from their sight.

The curtain rustled again and Gilbert peeked cautiously through the folds.

“They’re gone, come out already,” Elizaveta encouraged, and Gilbert stepped outside his hiding place and sat down on the edge of the scene.

“You were awesome, Liz,” he grinned. “I told you my foolish cousin would never last long against a pretty woman.”

“Yes, well,” Elizaveta answered, wiping the back of her hand on her skirt and throwing Matthias a pointed look, “next time one of you decides to do something half-witted like angering nobility or, I don’t know, burning down a church, you can get yourselves in a dress and save your own asses, because I’m done with smiling at pompous prigs.”

“You’d rather smile at a real man, wouldn’t you, Liz?” Gilbert taunted, and jumped deftly back when Elizaveta launched at him, making the seams of her dress groan.

“Liz, be careful,” Feliks moaned, “that’s your costume for the second act, and there’s no time to stitch it up if you tear it apart.”

Four pairs of eyes pierced him with all the exasperation that had been at first meant for others.

“Why are you still here? I thought I had given you something to do!” Arthur growled, and then turned back to Gilbert. “And you! What was all that about?”

“You know I’m a fugitive,” Gilbert answered, lounging lazily on the scene and stretching his arms above his head. ”You wouldn’t want dear Roddy to send me back home so that my father can put me in charge of some God-forsaken village and make a dent in your troupe, would you, Arthur?”

“I wouldn’t mind it at all, come to think of it,” Arthur grumbled, “you’re more trouble than you’re worth. This whole town is more trouble than it’s worth! We won’t remain here an hour more than we have to, you hear me? Now get back to work!”

The troupe hurried back to their chores, hiding smiles behind their fingers.

“Still,” Matthias whispered to Gilbert as they took out a heavy, hinged panel painted in the likeness of castle walls and unfolded the three sides to search for cracks and scratches, “I wish we knew what called them away so urgently.”

 

* * *

 

The dead man lay on the ground, facing the sky with empty, sunken eyes. His clothes hung limp and heavy around his body, still carrying the night’s dampness, and his hair, matted and soiled with congealed mud, had been brushed away from his face to reveal skin as dry and brittle as old parchment.

Roderich stood on one side, flanked by two silent, reverent guards. On the other side, Berwald sat on one bent knee, fighting the shudder that had crossed his spine at the touch of the dead man’s skin. He rubbed his hand against the ground, welcoming the abrasive sensation, and then stood up heavily, meeting Roderich’s eyes as he rose. A brief look of bewilderment passed between them. No wound had been revealed to their scrutiny, no blood and no sign of struggle; nothing stood out but that papery skin that seemed ready to fall apart in flakes and reveal the desiccated flesh underneath.

“This is… quite unusual,” murmured Roderich. “Commander, make sure no word of it escapes beyond this unfortunate man’s family. We don’t need more rumour mongering in this town.”

“There’s no family here, your honor,” a guard spoke in a sombre voice. “Too many mouths to feed, the lad got sent away as soon as he was old enough to make a living.” He crossed himself. “God rest his soul in peace.”

“Good, good,” said Roderich hurriedly. “Take him away and see that he is buried without delay. Commander, walk back with me, if you please,” he added and turned away, stepping out from the shadows of the crooked alley into the wide street beyond. Berwald followed silently.

“What do you make of this, Commander?” Roderich asked as Berwald fell into step beside him.

Berwald shrugged. “There are many ways a man can die. I’d have the healer search the body for signs of the plague before we do anything else.”

“That old gossip? Out of the question!” Roderich exclaimed, stopping abruptly and turning to confront Berwald with a stern look in his eyes. “It was no disease that killed that man, you know it as well as I do, Commander, and the answer to our mystery is locked behind the door of a prison cell. Go and question your prisoner and, if you still care about his fate, make sure he speaks what he knows. His trial resumes soon and, rest assured, the time for mercy is now long gone.”

Nothing on Berwald’s face betrayed his newly-gained knowledge as he nodded in answer.

“And, Commander …” Roderich added softly. “Your dedication is commendable, it truly is, but some battles are only meant to be lost, and a wise man needs to know when the time comes to stand down and seek a worthier cause to fight for.”

Berwald nodded again and watched Roderich turn his back and walk away with even steps. A wise man, he thought while Roderich disappeared behind a corner, would seek a way out; but he must have been very foolish indeed, for he only sought the patience to carry him through the confrontations to come, and the strength to help him keep true to a promise he’d been too rash to make.

 

* * *

 

 

The Watch House was empty and eerily silent, as though subdued by the presence of death. The worn wooden floor creaked under Berwald’s heavy gait as he made his way to the guardroom and pushed the door open. Two watchmen lifted their eyes from the cards they were idly tossing on the table in a half-hearted game and watched him with ill-concealed apprehension as he climbed down the stairs to the cells below.

A soft murmur reached Berwald’s ears and he paused on the last step, struggling to hear. It was a song, he realised, nothing more than a few notes wordlessly hummed, and yet soothing in its simplicity. Slowly, without making a sound, Berwald came near the door and looked inside the cell through the barred window. Daylight filtered sparingly from above, veiling everything in a dull, grey tinge. On the bed, the child still slept fitfully; Lukas sat on the floor, combing his hand through his brother’s hair to the same faltering rhythm as his quiet song. His eyes were closed and, as Berwald watched, his head fell back, heavy with fatigue, and the tune broke on his lips. Lukas shuddered, clenching his fist in the strands around his fingers, and his eyes snapped open, unfocused.

Berwald stepped back guiltily, knowing he had witnessed something not meant for the eyes of others. His anger rose at the thought of being caught skulking like a thief in the shadows, and he gripped the bolt and pushed it through the sockets with a forcefulness meant to balance out his own mortification. The iron screeched in protest and the hinges rattled as the door flew open, and Berwald paused on the threshold, beckoning with a curt move of his head. Lukas stood up and followed him outside without a word.

“A man died last night, not far from where you were held,” Berwald said, and then paused when Lukas’ eyes grew wider with something akin to fear. “It was one of your guards. We have yet to find the other.”

Lukas let out a short breath and, for a moment, relief seemed to soften the sharp angles of his face. “I do not see how this concerns me,” he answered, raising his chin stubbornly. “In spite of everything that’s been said about me these past days, to kill a man I still need both of my hands free, and maybe a weapon of some sort.”

Berwald thought of the man lying lifeless on the dirty cobblestones, and the last threads of his patience tensed, and then snapped, defeated. His hand seemed to move by itself as he caught Lukas by the arm and dragged him across the corridor. Behind him, Lukas stumbled and cursed, but Berwald kept him in a deadly grip and didn’t stop until he reached the farthest cell and pushed the door open.

Charred remains of wood peeked out from within the heap of ash on the floor, and the walls carried the black traces of smoke. Berwald reached out and seized Lukas’ other wrist, then twisted both his arms behind the back and pressed against them until Lukas gasped with pain and stopped struggling in his hold.

“Look around you,” Berwald hissed in Lukas’ ear, turning him to face the burnt wreck. “This could have been the place of your brother’s death. The mists came for him in the night. How many others must lose their lives before you give up on your pretense and your secrets?”

Lukas remained silent. Berwald tightened the grasp on his arms and forced them higher, feeling the muscles pull taut and the bones grind harshly against their sockets. “Answer me!” he bellowed, and pushed hard, throwing Lukas halfway inside the cell and onto the pile of burnt wood.

A cloud of ash rose in the air where Lukas fell. Lukas coughed and rolled on his back, bracing himself on one elbow and glaring up at Berwald, who hovered above him like an avenging angel.

“What do you want me to tell you?” he snarled. “Go to the monastery for the answers you seek if your master’s leash is not too tight. Do you truly believe that if I knew anything of worth I’d still be here in this cell, at yours and everybody else’s mercy? Make no mistake, I’d burn these walls to the ground and send all who threaten my brother’s life straight to hell if it stood in my power but, as I am now, there’s nothing more I can do but step before him and suffer the blows meant for us both.”

Berwald clenched his fist and looked down at the prisoner, posed to strike. Lukas held his gaze with eyes burning feverishly against his soot-stained skin. “Go on,” he said, falling back to the ground. “Prove that you’re just the same as everyone else.”

Berwald spun on his heel and hit the wall hard with his fist, welcoming the sting racing up his arm and the blood that began to trickle down his knuckles. As pain took hold his anger drained, leaving behind a wave of unspeakable exhaustion.

“Stand up,” Berwald grunted without turning around. “You’re going back to your cell.”

They crossed the corridor side by side, silent and subdued. When they reached the door, Berwald removed a lit torch from the perch on the wall and handed it to Lukas.

“Fire,” he said. “It was fire that chased the mist away.”

Lukas wrapped his fingers around the handle and his gaze flicked from Berwald’s face to the flame and back again. His mouth had become a harsh, thin line. “The fifth plank to the left from the western corner of my house is loose,” he began and then swallowed painfully, as though the words were burning his throat. “There’s a book hidden inside the wall. Unless I speak, that book is the only proof they can hold against us.”

Berwald felt his mouth go dry. “I understand,” he whispered, trying to put as much reassurance into his voice as he was able to muster.

 

* * *

 

When Tino slipped onto a chair across the table, Berwald was still listening absently to the tap of his own fingers against the tankard of beer that had been standing in from of him for the past hour. The liquid inside had remained untouched. With every strike, it sloshed dangerously close to the brim and stained the pewter with minuscule droplets threatening to spill over on Berwald’s bruised knuckles. He had scrubbed his skin free of blood and grime, but the flesh scraped raw still stood out lividly against the back of his hands.

“You’ve been in a fight.”

Berwald’s fingers froze halfway to their target at the sound of Tino’s voice. “Only against myself,” Berwald muttered, without lifting his gaze.

“Pardon?” Tino asked. Without waiting for an answer, he hunted through his pockets, pulled out a small wooden jar and a thin wad of cloth, and dropped them on the table. “Give me your hand,” he ordered, his voice so firm that Berwald obeyed with nothing more than a single eyebrow raised questioningly.

Tino’s moves were short and precise as he smeared the bruises with ointment and wrapped them in clean cloth, weaving it between the fingers and ending with a knot at the wrist. “The house where your friends lived,” Berwald said once he broke free from Tino’s grasp, closing his fist to try out the tightness of the bandage around his palm, “do you think you can tell me how to find it?”

Tino jumped to his feet, nearly upturning his chair. “Did Lukas reveal anything?” he breathed, struggling to keep his voice low.

Berwald shook his head. “I want to search for… for anything that might prove of help,” he answered, looking away from Tino’s eyes.

“I’ll take you there,” Tino said quickly. “I know their house well, I can help you…”

“No, Tino,” Berwald cut in, standing up and taking his coat from the back of the chair. “You’ve done all you could for them, now it’s time you stood back and thought of your own safety.”

Tino straightened his back, tilted his head and pierced Berwald with an indignant glare. Red blots were staining the top of his cheeks. “What about your safety? What about theirs? Am I a child not to be trusted with my own decisions?”

They held each other’s gaze for a short while, looking for weaknesses and cracks, but Berwald’s eyes held fast and in the end Tino slumped his shoulders, admitting defeat. “I’ll draw you a map,” he muttered, then turned on his heel and dragged his steps upstairs, in search for paper.

Nearly half an hour later, Berwald was sitting in the saddle in front of the inn’s open gates, holding the bridle of his horse in one gloved hand and squinting at Tino’s crude sketch. The inn stood out clearly at the bottom, a large square scribbled so furiously that a blotch of ink was staining the left corner, but the rest of the map was drowned in a cobweb of streets, symbols and arrows pointing the way. It had been drawn well enough to make sure that Berwald would eventually reach his destination, and yet with just the right amount of haziness to make him regret going alone before the journey had even begun.

Berwald turned the paper around in search for another familiar landmark that might spare him a walk back to the kitchen, where Tino had taken refuge with a pile of dirty dishes and the seeming resolve to scrub off every single stain by the most violent means at hand. Before the map could yield anything of use, the stable doors screeched and Berwald looked up to see the innkeeper step out in the open. With hair still thick and black in spite of his age and skin tanned by countless days of sun and wind, the man looked nothing like his son but, as he moved at Berwald’s side leading a stout, brown horse, his face mirrored the same determination that had steeled Tino’s eyes.

The innkeeper held up his hand and Berwald handed him the makeshift map without a word.

“You won’t get far with this,” the innkeeper said, crumpling the paper and throwing it at the base of the fence. “I’ll show you the way.”

Berwald blinked in surprise. “You have my thanks,” he said, adjusting his glasses to cover for his slip.

“There’s no need for that,” the innkeeper answered gruffly. “Least I can do after you tried to keep my boy out of trouble.”

Berwald nodded, waiting for the other man to climb into the saddle, and then pulled at the bridles to allow his host to take the lead. They rode silently through the streets, keeping the horses at a steady trot. The guards waved them through the northern gate with nothing more than a glance, and when the road grew wider, meandering through patches of dry land and ancient wooden houses barely standing upright, the innkeeper allowed his horse to fall into pace beside Berwald’s.

“It’s hard to believe,” he began, gesturing with his arm in a large circle, “that this is where our community first settled, many years ago. By the time I was born, the town as you see it now was nearly complete. The wall around it had yet to be built, and I can say I’ve lain more than a few bricks with my own hands during my youth. We moved the fields, such as they were, to the south, and let the forest overtake the old ones, for they had been drained by all the crops they had given us. And, by the time all families had a home inside the walls, only the poor who couldn’t build anew were left here in the few houses that still stood. Most were old and childless and soon passed away, but others came and took their place. Wanderers, many of them. Some would come in the spring, work our fields for what money we could give them and, when the cold settled in, they’d embark on a ship and travel to countries with more merciful weather. Others would come with the first snow, artisans, hunters or peddlers who travelled the roads to sell their skills and their wares, and paid us for a safe home during winter. Some would come back, year after year; others, we’d never hear of again.

“But those two boys, they came one summer, and they stayed. I remember the first time I saw them; they were in the church, sitting on a bench in the last row. The younger one, the child, looked so small and frail, and so strange with that pale hair of his that I didn’t know if I should look upon him with pity, or with apprehension. His brother was no better. He didn’t look a day over sixteen, but with eyes that seemed to have already lived through a lifetime of misery, and he was so thin I thought he had starved himself. He helped with the harvest, that first season, but even though he worked so hard his hands bled, he was not called back to the fields the following year. We’re not cruel folk, but who’d employ a scrawny lad who did half a grown man’s work in a day? And he was cold and silent, and never took part in any merrymaking, and made the other laborers uneasy when he stood among them.

It was then that he began to trade his herbs and his medicines, first for food and clothes, and later, when his skill became known, for money. Make no mistake, he cured many of us, and I’ve seen his face grow gentler when he visited the sick, as though he had more patience for suffering than for joy. I asked him once how he had gained his skills, and he answered that it had used to be his family’s trade, and then looked away as if the question pained him.”

“Why do you think they settled here?” Berwald asked when the innkeeper paused to drink a mouthful of water from a flask he had taken out from the saddlebags.

“They’re orphans, most likely, driven away from their home by some landlord after their parents died. The plague left many children without a roof over their heads in the past years, as you might know, and the road is no place to bring up a child. It may have seemed a good choice at that time to claim one of our empty houses; who’d have known it would end like this.” He paused again. “Not all of us believe everything the monks tell us, Commander, nor are as bloodthirsty as the past day may have made us. But sometimes the Church feels its power slip, and seeks to make an example out of some unfortunate soul, and in times such as these all we can do is watch and be grateful that it’s not one of our own who gets chosen. But I know a few who’d feel relieved if you helped those boys keep their lives.”

The innkeeper pulled sharply at the reins, guiding the horse on a narrow trail to the left between two rowan trees. The leaves still kept a frail hold but their warm autumnal red was already lost. They looked brown and brittle like burnt parchment, and when Berwald pushed away a branch that hung low in his path they scattered to the ground under his hand.

“We’re here,” the innkeeper said, and led his horse to one side to allow Berwald to ride ahead.

The wooden cabin before them was small but well patched, with new planks covering the holes where the old ones had rotten away and a thatched roof that looked freshly mended. Only the door hung ajar, barely holding on weakened hinges, as if it had been ripped away by force.

The yard bore its own signs of violence. There were deep lines dug in the ground, traces of heavy boots and of struggle. The small garden in the farthest corner had once been carefully hedged on dark and moist soil, but now the fence had been broken down and the beds upturned and tiny leaves and roots lay scattered, trampled between clumps of earth and scraps of wood.

The innkeeper shook his head at the sight. “Such a waste,” he said, getting down from the saddle and stepping over broken pieces of wood to kneel on the ground and examine a battered plant, uprooted and half-buried in dirt. His horse trotted after him and angled its neck to reach a cluster of crushed leaves, then tilted its ears backwards and sneezed at the pungent smell. “These would have doubtlessly done a world of good to the sick in the winter.”

Berwald threw only a cursory glance at the ruined garden. “I’m going inside,” he announced, and the innkeeper made a narrow gesture with his hand, showing he did not intend to follow. He had to bow his head to pass through the door. The inside of the cabin was murky and filled with the sharp scent of dried herbs. Something rustled under the soles of his feet, and Berwald paused in the middle of the narrow room, blinking slowly through the dimness until the shadowy shapes around him gained distinct contours.

The floor was covered with a thin sheet of dark-colored powder, the remains of herbs spilling from broken jars and ground to dust under uncaring boots. Two beds had been pushed together against the farthest wall, stripped of sheets and blankets, and the mattresses, nothing more than hempen sacks filled with hay, lay in the middle of the room, sliced open and surrounded by what looked like the contents of an entire row of shelves, clothes and cutlery jumbled together and topped with the scattered leaves of a few books torn at the spines.

Berwald did not stop to examine the forlorn pile. He stepped over the shards of a broken bottle, the liquid inside long spilt and dried into a stain that stood out sharply against the dingy wooden floor, and kicked away a bent set of brass scales to clear his way and kneel at the western corner. Brushing his fingers against the wall, he counted five planks to the left and pushed. The plank held fast, and Berwald moved his palm higher up, pushing again with all his strength, until he felt it moving under his hand and the top sank a few inches inside the wall, clearing a narrow hole at the base. Berwald huffed in annoyance. The newly formed gap might have fit a slender arm, yet it did not seem wide enough to allow Berwald’s own hand to slide between the boards. He grabbed the end of the plank and pulled, ripping it from the wall with a dull crack.

The gaping hole revealed a second row of planks behind, and Berwald squeezed his arm inside the empty space between the two walls, feeling his way to the left and to the right, until his fingers touched a piece of cloth. He pushed his arm through all the way to the elbow to get a better hold of his find and, feeling the sharp corners of a heavy book under the softness of fabric, he pulled it carefully towards him, sliding it out from its hiding place.

The cloth proved to be a small satchel fastened with a piece of string and dusty with disuse. Berwald resisted the urge to open it right then and there and stood up, brushing the dust of crushed herbs off his trousers. The air had become too heavy for his liking and the dimness too dreary, and he left the cabin with swift steps, grateful for the few hours of light that were left of the day.

Yet the light he had craved assaulted his sight mercilessly, and his surroundings blurred. “I’m ready to leave once…” he began, shading his eyes with the palm of his hand, but the innkeeper raised his arm in warning, silencing him with the urgency of the move, and Berwald let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. Further away, where the yard shared the same border with a dense thicket of elderberry shrubs grown to sizes that rivaled all trees around, a few branches close to the ground shook and rustled, and the horses snorted nervously, flapping their ears and digging their hooves into the ground.

“A wild animal?” Berwald asked, moving closer to the frightened horses and taking hold of the reins of his steed.

“Too close to the town,” the innkeeper answered, crouching down to pick a sharp stone from the ground, “and too early in the autumn for wolves.” He stood up and, aiming carefully, he threw. The stone flew straight through the quivering branches, and a short screech echoed in answer. The shrub shook one last time and then a small shape, obscured by shadows and foliage, dashed back into the dense confines of the elderberry thicket. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now,” the innkeeper concluded. “Did you find what you came here for?”

“I believe I did,” Berwald answered guardedly, prepared to brush off any further questioning, but the innkeeper only grunted in approval and headed for his horse, without throwing even a look at the satchel that hung conspicuously in Berwald’s hand.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t until the late hours of the evening that the book came out in the open, lying on Berwald’s desk under the light of two candles.

The covers felt rough under Berwald’s fingers, bound in brown leather darkened by time and cracked at the spine. Illuminations had once decorated the corners, but years of handling had worn them away, leaving nothing behind but faint traces of bronze and rusty red along a pattern of grooves too shallow to fully reveal the erstwhile adornment. The book looked to his eyes like something dug up from ancient ruins and exposed to a world no longer in need of its secrets.

Berwald lifted the front cover with great care, fearing the decay he might find inside. Yet the pages stood intact, yellowed at the edges but thick and sturdy, and covered in a spidery writing unlike anything Berwald had ever seen. It was a willowy alphabet, all sharp angles and slender loops, letters chained together like the delicate borderlines on silk tapestries. Only two words stood on each row, followed at the very end by the drawn symbol of the waning moon. Berwald leafed through pages and pages of columns neatly aligned, and the thin crescent appeared on every row without fail, often criss-crossed with intricate patterns of knots and lines, the faded ink growing brighter with each page he turned, until the writing ended abruptly with two solitary words, penned at the start of two rows waiting to be filled. And, on the rows above, the final two symbols seemed drawn by the same hand, two simple, black crescents deeply hollowed, pointing down.

The following pages proved blank, and Berwald leafed onwards with growing disappointment, until he reached a thin leather inset that split the book in two, and behind it the writing appeared anew. It amassed in long paragraphs, and in lists carefully dotted, and every now and then the rows were broken by drawings of equal intricacy. There were charts of stars and constellations, and complex diagrams with symbols Berwald didn’t even try to comprehend, and inked pictures of herbs and flowers so detailed that they seemed to come alive under his eyes.

Berwald tapped the page thoughtfully, staring at the words he could not read. The accursed book had given him more questions than answers, together with the burden of keeping it safe. He pushed back his chair and stood up abruptly, slamming the leather covers shut over the secrets they held, and dropped the book back into the chest that now had to serve as inadequate repository.

On the other side of the door, Tino saw the thin sliver of light that shone through the crack above the threshold disappear, and heard the bed creak under the weight of a large body. For the past hour he’d been summoning up the will to knock on Berwald’s door and plead his cause, afraid to lose the only way to reach his friends that he still had open, but his pride had kept him from being the first to speak after their quarrel. And now the chance was lost, and he would have to return to his room empty-handed, ripe for another night of troubling thoughts and bad dreams. With his head bowed and heavy feet, he made his way back across the corridor until the sound of hushed voices cut his retreat and, hiding carefully behind the corner, he listened.

Matthias felt as if they had been sitting there for hours, perched on the last step of the staircase, strangely undisturbed, leaning into each other like they often did when the scars of their past opened anew and urged them to seek solace in their convoluted friendship. He swallowed against his parched throat and spoke again.

“I held him in my arms, Liz, for an entire night I held him, and it felt… right. As if whatever path I might have taken in life, it would have inescapably led me there, in that town square where he sat in chains, to hold him and comfort him through his plight. And it scared me. Everything I’ve ever loved is now dust in a grave. Why him, Liz? Why now? Why not someone like you, who’s healthy and free and has a lifetime of years ahead?”

The woman tightened her hold against his shoulders and sighed. “There is no answer I should give you, Matthias. And maybe none exists anyhow. Or maybe this is not the time for answers, but simply for decisions. Stand at his side and keep all questions for safer days; else, leave this place and never look back again.”

“Go to him,” Feliks’ voice echoed from behind them, and they turned their heads in surprise at the intrusion. There had been no sound of footsteps to announce his arrival, and he stood above them with rumpled hair and drowsy eyes. “Go to him,” he repeated, “and see this through to the end. You’ve made yourself part of his story and you must understand that, at this time, the way it might end matters less than the way you choose to play your role.”

Matthias nodded and stood up, gathering his coat tighter around his body.

“Are you going now?” Elizaveta asked.

Matthias turned to her and smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I think I know how to find him.”

Elizaveta watched him disappear through the front door, then reached out and pulled Feliks down on the seat left empty. “Shouldn’t we go to sleep?” Feliks asked, concealing a yawn behind the back of his hand.

“In a moment,” she answered and began to comb her fingers through his hair, lingering where the long strands were twisted together in stubborn knots. “You know,” she continued, “it takes a special kind of courage to speak such truths as you’ve just done.”

Feliks hummed happily and leant against her while, unbeknownst to them both, Tino slunk away from the shadows of the corridor and tiptoed up the stairs, the wheels of his mind already turning under a deluge of thoughts and barely-shaped plans fueled by the evening’s revelation of an unlikely new ally.

 

* * *

 

 

The cold seeping through his clothes was almost soothing, numbing his mind to anything else but the sharp, icy shivers that pierced every inch of flesh where his body touched the stone floor. Lukas hadn’t meant to fall asleep; he had merely lain down when the pain in his bruised ribs had become so keen that his breath struggled inside the rigid cage of his chest, but his eyelids had fallen closed as if weighed down with lead. And even as he lay there, all but sunken into the heavy sleep of fatigue, his ears still pounded with the even whisper of his brother’s breath and the erratic beating of his own heart.

It was this noise-filled lethargy that kept him from hearing the sound of approaching footsteps and hushed voices, until light exploded all around him and a sudden heat began to lick at his skin. Lukas bolted upright. Fire poured out from the remains of an oil lamp shattered no more than two feet away, and spread along the winding rivulets that spilled from the cracks in the fuel chamber. As he stood up, Lukas clawed at the blanket on the bed, and cast it over the fire. It fell down in a heap, hiding the flames briefly under its folds, and Lukas hurried to trample it under his feet before the fire could rise up again.

A scornful laughter echoed and Lukas lifted his head, suddenly realizing he had not given a moment’s thought to the hand behind the attack. Two young men were watching him from the other side of the barred window, their faces lit up by the flame of another lamp.

“Burn, witch,” one of them sneered and pushed the lamp through the bars, aiming straight at Lukas’ chest. Lukas tensed, ready to jump out of the way, but then a heavy hand fell on the other man’s shoulder and pulled him back. The lamp slipped from his outstretched hand and rolled on the ground, still intact, and Lukas rushed to set it upright while the sound of curses and blows resonated from the outside.

Lukas kicked the charred remains of the blanket in a corner, keeping his eyes riveted on the window. The fight had moved out of his sight, and only faint echoes reached his ears. At long last he heard running footsteps and the window darkened with Matthias’ silhouette.

“Are you hurt?” Matthias asked out of breath, gripping the bars in his hands, and Lukas pushed back his hair damp with sweat, taking in the blue eyes filled with worry and the knuckles bruised for his sake - the same eyes that had watched his rest and the same hands that had held him close while death was striking in a nearby alley.

Lukas narrowed his gaze to mean, frozen slits. “You again,” he spat with as much venom as he could muster. “Why are you here? Are you so foolish to go and put yourself in danger for the sake of a stranger’s lost cause? Or do you just want to brag to your friends that you’ve exchanged words with the witch, so they praise you for your bravery?”

Matthias blinked, looking down with a deep frown between his eyebrows. “No,” he said slowly. “I am neither brave, nor a fool. I am simply one of the few left who still care more to see you alive than dead.”

Lukas clenched his fists tightly at his side, and turned his head away, and his hair fell down, shielding his eyes. “You’d better watch out, oh brave and selfless one,” he spoke bitterly, “for your life may soon hang in the same balance as mine. And you would not be the first to die just for the sin of being at my side.”

Matthias stared incredulously, his mind struggling to make sense of the words, and then he threw his head back and laughed. “Are you afraid? For me?” he asked, while Lukas hissed like an angered snake, piercing him once again with the entire strength of his glare. “Listen…”

But his words were drowned by a moan, and then the mattress rustled, and a weak voice called out: “Lukas?”

“Emil,” Lukas breathed, and rushed at his brother’s side, all other thoughts forgotten. The boy tugged at his hands and Lukas kneeled at the side of the bed, lifting him in his arms. Emil sighed and rested his head on Lukas’ chest. His eyes were wide open, glinting like a pair of dark flames through the gloom.

“I saw you dead,” he whispered, “I saw you in the grave, and worms were gathering to wait for their feast. And then you opened your eyes and dirt covered them and you were blind, and dirt filled your mouth so you couldn’t scream, and you clawed and clawed at the ground until the bones in your fingers splintered, but it closed around you and pulled you deeper, too deep for me to follow.”

Lukas lifted his head and met Matthias’ gaze, filled with a reverent dread not unlike his own. Belatedly he realized he was shaking, and he clutched his brother tighter to his chest, drawing comfort and warmth from the smaller body. “It was a dream, Emil,” he said, his eyes still locked with Matthias’, unable to break away. “A nightmare. None of it was real. You know you must never believe the visions that come to you in the night.”

The boy shook his head. “No. He told me it was an echo of what may come to pass. He told me my gift was strong; he told me…” His voice faltered, and his eyelids fell. “I forgot,” he murmured. “I’m tired. I must sleep until tomorrow.”

“Sleep, then,” Lukas said, and set his brother’s head gently on the pillow. Then he whipped his gaze back to Matthias. “You shouldn’t have seen this,” he said. “Go away. You’re not welcome here.”

There was a new hardness in his voice that kept Matthias silent and unable to retaliate, and he shrunk back until his tall figure merged with the shadows.

Lukas stood still, watching the empty window. A hollow was deepening inside his chest, and he let his body crumble, burying his head in his arms on the edge of the bed. “Oh, little brother,” he spoke, his voice low and broken. “I don’t know what to do and who to trust anymore. And I’m scared I might have done a terrible mistake.”

He flinched at the touch of fingers on his wrist, and lifted his eyes. Emil was looking at him from behind his lashes. “Trust those who show you mercy,” he mumbled sleepily, and clasped Lukas’ hand in reassurance.

 

* * *

 

The words had long died down but Matthias still listened intently, leaning against the wall just out of sight from the barred window, longing for more voices to break through the darkness of one more night of repose relinquished for the newfound contentment of standing watch over the sleep of another.


End file.
